


Bel Fen'lanen Sildeara Enfenim: Wolves Feel Fear

by Washedawaycloud



Series: Mar Bellanaris Alas'nir [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Comfort Sex, Cuddling & Snuggling, Current Events, Dancing, Demons, Denial, Denial of Feelings, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Evolving Tags, Explicit Language, F/M, Fade Demons, Fade Spirits, Fluff and Angst, Gore, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Jayla Shepard, Jayla Trevelyan, Jealousy, Kidnapping, MGiT, Mage Rights, Mage hate, Magical manipulation, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mentions of Rape, Minor Injuries, Misunderstandings, Modern Character in Thedas, Modern Girl in Thedas, Multiple Partners, Naked Cuddling, Non-Trevelyan Human Inquisitor, Possessiveness, Pre-Relationship, Racism, Red lyrium poisoning, Rite of Tranquility, Romantic Tension, Serious Injuries, Sex, Sexual Tension, Skinship, Sleep Sex, Slow Burn, Tattoos, Time Travel, Touch-Starved, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Violence, inappropriate use of magic, platonic intimacy, touch-aversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2018-09-19 00:12:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 53
Words: 233,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9408803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Washedawaycloud/pseuds/Washedawaycloud
Summary: Jayla is a dancer, not a warrior. Jayla is ahumanfrom Earth, not aMagefrom Thedas. This is madness. How isshesupposed to seal a Breach, restore order to half a continent, prevent an assassination, and solve a murder? Did she mention that she's adancer?Part one is complete





	1. Huh.

**Author's Note:**

> Literal title translation: many wolf persons feel fear

Jayla Shepard is covered in sweat, not a fine sheen, nor a ‘glow’, this spoke of how her muscles were protesting. Protesting in familiar, welcome ways. Her posture is perfect, though her feet are screaming. It’s par for the course with new pointe shoes, they are perhaps, the worst things in the world to practice in. 

However, Jayla refuses to be controlled by something so trivial, something so familiar. She’s come too far, done too much to get here, pushed herself too hard. All her varied jobs will pay off in the end. Just like these shoes, when in a few weeks, they would be perfect, and she would break another pair in. She always keeps three newly broken for the three that would inevitably wear out during audition and performance seasons. 

The shoes make their hollows sounds as she moves, twisting, turning, leaping and popping into pointe. It is storming outside, a wild crash of light and sound. It doesn’t give Shepard pause, just shifts her focus, intensifying her concentration on her movements, on the cadence of the song that bids her move. Pain may lance up her legs, but this is her  _ life _ , her one true love. The storm becomes louder, and Jayla dances harder, moving quicker, forcing her movements into a fluidity not yet second nature to her. 

The lights flicker, and that is what makes the young ballerina stop. It’s just a momentary pause, a breath, and she laughs gently at her own nerves. She loves the rain, the thunder, lightening. Breaking just long enough from her routine, the woman switches the song - played from a phone plucked from the strap of her bra. It fills the room, and she flies into a leap, the phone in hand. The studio is drenched in blackness, a green light flaring into being, engulfing the dancer - and her phone crashes to the floor while Jayla leaps into the Fade. 

 

It’s jarring - this place, terrifying. Everything seems a sickly green, rocky, shadowed, craggy. This looks like the caves filled with stalactites and stalagmites of her youth. Yet, it feels, strange, almost as if this is a place she shouldn’t be. And honestly, considering Jayla knows she had just been in her dance studio - this is not where she should be. It’s all manner of wrong and foreign. Fear grips her heart, placing it in her throat as she stumbles forward, searching for a way out. 

Time doesn’t seem to exist, Jay can’t find her equilibrium, can’t determine north or south, east or west, there are no stars here. THere doesn’t seem to be a sky or ceiling that makes any sort of sense. A black skyline looms in the distance, a dark and terrifying sentinel. She stumbles, trips along this foreign place, dust clinging to her skin, to the satin of her shoes, and when she finally trips to the ground, her knees skinning on the rocks, it’s because she tripped over a body. The scream let loose is instinctive, terrified, cut off quickly for fear the predator that had taken this dead thing would take her too. 

It had been a woman, or so she assumes by the plume of dark hair, staining the ground like ink. Squinting in the light that seems to have dimmed, she spots strange ears - they’re long, delicately pointed, beautiful if drooping. Swallowing down her fear, the ballerina crawls just a few feet back toward the woman, reaching out ad giving a shove. There is no movement. Sucking in a panicked breath, she reaches for the hand of the woman that is closest to her, intending to check for a pulse. What happens is very much akin to electrocution. Her skin just barely grazes that of the corpse, and an arch of green light slams into her chest. It’s excruciating, quick, darting down the length of her arm to settle and throb in her left hand. Her mouth opens in a silent scream as she collapses into darkness. 

Moments or hours could have passed by the time Jayla wakes. She only wakes because of a golden light that sears her eyes. A hand settles over them, shielding them as she stands, and she runs for it, leaving the body behind, desperate for an escape. She comes to the base of a hill, starting up it at a more sedate pace to save her breath, when the sound of - something, catches her attention. 

Turning, her breath turns to ice in her lungs, the creatures that are following after her drive her into fight or flight. She runs for all she’s worth up the hill, breathing as evenly as she can. There is no good name for the creatures that dart up behind her, but they’ve haunted her since her youngest days of dreaming. She scrambles when she falls, not looking back, too fearful to, and a hand of light reaches for her. Not questioning, just desperate, Jayla reaches for it in turn, scrambles, strains, lunges for that hand, and is thrown, but not before a strange feeling surges through her as she flies. 

The feeling settles as the world feels right again, though it’s a momentary reprieve. She lands on a rock, so hard there is a set of distinct and sudden snaps. THe universe blooms in pain and Jayla howls for all and sundry to hear her. THe smell of something burning, of some kind of flesh, makes her want to retch, the reaction intensifying her pain, and thus the urge. Without thinking, she tries to push herself off the ground, only to cry out again, whimpering weakly, allowing everything she'd eaten in seeming days to come up and out of her into the world. She has enough presence of mind and strength to roll herself onto her back, welcoming the sinking sensation that envelops her. 

  
  


Jayla sits in the Tavern of a town called Haven, her head buried in her hands. It is the most secluded corner that the place boasts, upstairs away from the townsfolk and soldiers. Hardly anyone comes up here, she’d learned that well enough with the first week of residing here. Tonight, however, the dull roar from down stairs may as well be trumpets blaring beside her ears. She has a monumental headache, it started just behind her temples, throbbing relentlessly. 

This is just another day when she has to, yet again, come to terms with this not being Earth with excedrin and tylenol pm. That she would likely never see her home again. Another day when she has to come to terms with the fact she is now a tool of war. A fact reinforced each day she wakes up here.

The dancer has never been the type to get into physical fights. Her parents, army folk, had made sure she knew how to throw a punch, dodge, defend and wield a knife for the purpose of self-defence, but straight out brawling? Hand to hand with intent to kill? Jayla had only ever had a token interest in martial arts, and after taking up dancing that infatuation quickly died. The likelihood of a broken bone posed too great a threat to her dreams to risk it. So, she is woefully underprepared to be thrust into life or death, kill or be killed situations. Yet, this is her life now.

This place is utterly foreign. She’d not been able to make sense of their ‘common’ though it shares large portions of words and phrases with her English at first. It seemed like language on steroids, proto-germanic words thrown in everywhere, bits of other romance languages tossed in, to seemingly mix things up. The syntax was more akin to the romance languages than germanic ones, and it still makes her headache when she comes up against someone who speaks too quickly for her. This place is a linguistic major’s dream come true, Jayla knows that much and she’d taken a single introductory course as an elective during her first semester of college. 

The young woman hears Flissa, the barmaid, likely bar’s owner, ask what she’d like for the evening meal, and she responds with  her ‘regular’ order. Jayla has never eaten so many variations of stew in her life. At least today is the morning the bread had been baked. She quickly found, that the beginning of the week was when you asked for thick slices of brown and black breads or sweet rolls. Come ‘Makersday’ they would all be hardtack rationed out for the troops going on patrol up the mountain and in the area surrounding Haven.

It’s insane. This place, this world, is fucking insane.

 

“Well, well. If it isn’t our resident Pacifist.” That voice, the low gravelly voice that announces her thief companion makes her groan. He’s been attempting to nail her down with a nickname for three weeks now. It would seem he’s still trying. 

“Mister Tethras,” her voice barely rises over a whisper, and her hand flutters in the general direction of a chair. He would sit with her anyway, Jayla knows that. The man is absolutely fascinated by her.  _ The girl who fell out of the Fade. _ It would seem the damn runic scar on her hand, the one a dead woman should have, suddenly marked her as a whole continent’s next Virgin Mary. A terrifying concept. Thank the Gods they didn’t need a virgin birth at least. That ship has long sailed.  Long,  _ long _ sailed. 

“Are you eating, or did I get roped into more lessons without my knowledge or express permission?” Her words are slow, almost leaden but sharp. Is she bitter? You bet your ass that Jayla is better. She’s been run ragged ever since they had decided she wasn’t a threat to them. Drills with the Spymistress’ best agents, magic lessons with ‘approved’ Circle tutors, history, language and  _ deportment _ lessons with the Ambassador. It is a wonder she’s got this much time to herself. She feels and hears the chair across from her pull out, her head tilting in her hands as she watches the blond - strawberry blond- man settle into the seat across from her. 

“Eating, kid. Don’t worry, they aren’t going to throw even  _ more _ at you just yet. They're still getting in all the necessaries to officially start sending out the scouts, troops and envoys. We’re still ragtag right now. Need to get things settled before they have you go shake shit up.”  He states it in a matter of fact manner, and Jayla appreciates his candor with her. It there was anyone here she could absolutely count on to give it to her straight, it is the dwarven author. Which amuses the hell out of her, the rogue, the storyteller, he was the one who’d give it to you straight so long as he can.

 

It’s goddamn amazing.

 

Their food arrives, and Jayla does her best to not scarf it. She does, however, fall on it like she hasn’t eaten at all that day. To be fair, she is expending the energy of three people within a day. Every morsel is hers, and damn anyone if they think they could  take it from her. The first time they’d eaten together, Varric had commented that for such a ravenous eater, Jayla never got a crumb anywhere but around her mouth. Not to overlook the fact she had a fantastic grasp on the use of utensils and napkins. Practically civilized, he’d said. 

 

That asshole, she’d liked him from that moment on.

 

So, going to teach me Wicked Grace? I still don’t remember the rules.” She’s nursing her wine now, debating if a bowl of cobbler is advisable or not. She’s drinking wine, because the beer here is awful, seriously, it’s a travesty. It’s safer to stick to the wine or fruit juices. Water, well, she only drinks it if it’s been boiled first at a bare minimum. 

“Sure kid.” Varric pins her with a look that has her taking a few sips of her wine to cover how tense she feels. “It’s been almost a month, you know. Shouldn’t something have started to come back?” For a man who has probably had at least two or three concussions in his life, Varric doesn’t seem to have a great grasp on healing, or how the body really works. Knows where the squishiest bits are, but head trauma?  Not exactly his forte. Jayla shrugs. 

Officially speaking, the story goes,  that Lady Shepard, (some noble family had attempted to claim her, but Jayla put the kibosh on that shit quickly), had travelled from Rivain for the Conclave. The sole surviving mage of the Dairsmuid Circle annulment, a lucky young woman smuggled to safety by her Templar lover. Or some good shit like that. She’d come to the Conclave to say her piece before the now departed Divine and her council.  She has no memories beyond that, no way to ‘properly’ control her magic that she could remember, instinctively forming it in strange ways. 

Which means she’s using magical references from her mages in video games, anime, and roleplay books to accomplish anything. Apparently, this place doesn’t exactly do arrows conjured straight from lame, nor is area of a effect healing used typically unless the mage was the last one standing, their party on the brink of death, vulnerable.  She isn’t normal. The backstory is threadbare at best; and her companions, all two of them outside of Cassandra look at her sideways whenever she crosses their path.

At least her ‘superiors’ are in the know. It makes things a touch easier. Though, honestly, the mage, Solas? He’d drawn a spell rune onto her throat when they’d met, without asking her, when Cassandra had attempted to question her once more after the first tear was sealed.  She apparently, in trying to tell Cassandra to backup, and Solas to fuck off, had been speaking gibberish prior.  It had made that battle less tense, and helped her in the week after, letting her figure out exactly what bullshit form of language they used here. English, as it turns out, but not her English. She’s had to make a Cypher to maintain that she could read and write, refusing to be thought of as uneducated, and refusing to let anyone think they could get one over on her.  At least the Cypher made translation easier, it isn’t so much of a difficulty to ready now, not a major one anway. Had Jayla been forced to deal with Solas for constant runes, thing likely would have gotten hairy very quickly.

The man had, after all, outright insulted her intelligence, her strength, and there is something in his eyes she doesn’t like. She feels like a bug under a microscope whenever he looks at her. And he looks at her plenty. He’s always watching, those pretty blue eyes sharp, like he wants to see into her soul. It’s not just the insult to her mind or body, but he had very seriously fucked with her at the first rift. She can remember with startling clarity the way his, aura, or magic, whatever, had washed over it, slid into her and out of her hand. The sensation had felt far too good, and completely wrong at the same time. It was violating in a way, and he dared say he did _nothing_ after the fact! As if he thought she couldn’t feel what he did! It’s bullshit. Complete and utter bull -

“Ah, the chosen; our glorious Herald of Andraste, here to save us all,” speak of the goddamn devil and he shall appear. Jayla jerks in her chair, narrowly avoiding slopping wine down her tunic as she looks up sharply at the man who owns the voice. Three weeks she’s spent avoiding him, his gaze,   _ him. _ 4

“Oh,  _ awesome _ . Am I riding in on a shining steed? Upon the back of a dragon - oh, no, I’ve got it, I’m flying in on my very own wings.” Her lips pull into a smirk that borders on a sneer.  That title. Herald of Andraste. She doesn’t like it. Different title or none at all please. 

He nods to Varric before taking a seat at the end of the table and turning his attention back to her. “I would have suggested a griffon, but sadly they are all extinct.” His lips curl slightly, and Jayla stiffens. This one is dangerous, he’s got a silver tongue, she can already see it. Too quick with those quips, nomad mcmage pants. 

“Joke as you will, Lady Shepard, but posturing is necessary. I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of the long lost civilizations. I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten. Every great war has its heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be.” 

O- _ kay _ , intense. Mr. blue-eyed-baldy was intense. It’s got to be that voice of his. Jayla’s eyes narrow at him, taking it all in, focusing on the words for a moment. A good question, one she’ll get to when she gets to. But first - “I’m sorry, did you just say ruins and battlefields. What, exactly, does that entail?” 

His eyes practically light up in approval, and hell if his face doesn’t light as well for all it stays carefully placid. Jayla decides she’s avoiding this cat, because  _ damn _ . She’d drink coffee with him anytime. Which, no, she won’t. No coffee, no rolling around a bed with him either.  He’s done some invasive shit to her, and no matter how attractive the features, those freckles, that sexy as hell voice - . No.  _ No. _ Do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars, do not give your panties to the older suave mage. No. Bad idea. No. 

“Any building strong enough to withstand the rigors of time has a history. Every battlefield is steeped in death. Both attract spirits. They press against the veil, weakening the barrier between our worlds. When I dream in such places, I go deep into the Fade. I can find memories no other living being has ever seen.” 

Ugh, his voice. It’s like. Like… God, she wants to do dirty things to his voice. What is wrong with her right now?! Jayla shakes her head, very carefully not gulping at her wine and then speaks. She absolutely doesn’t lick her lips or swallow hard. No ma’am, she isn’t broadcasting having immediately developed a  _ thing _ f or the creeper elf himself. “Don’t ruins tend to hold some dangerous shit in them? How can you safely fall asleep in them?”

Solas’ face twists into a half smile, eyes narrowing with amusement shining from them. Jayla does her level best to look as far from enamored and hanging on his every word as humanly possible. She can come off as completely unaffected. This is not a game unknown to her. She’s fully capable of doing this. She is! It’s got to be the wine. There are too few nonalcoholic drink options in this god forsaken crazytown. Being buzzed ninety percent of the time is a bad idea for her inhibitions. 

“I  _ do _ set wards. And, if you leave food out for the giant spiders, they are usually content to live and let live.”

And there goes all that lustiness. She is officially _not_ hot for  teacher anymore. Goddamn giant spiders. Thedas is terrible. It’s worse than Australia, where they have fruit bats taller than she is. Still, what he tells her is interesting, and Varric, poor bastard, looks bored as shit. Sorry Varric. Jayla continues the line of conversation with a wide-eyed look and comment. 

“I’ve never heard of anyone doing anything remotely like that. That’s fucking amazing!”

Apparently, her reaction is interesting? It’s got Varric snorting into his ale, and Solas looks intrigued?  “Thank you, it’s not a common field of study, for obvious reasons. Not so flashy as throwing fire or lightning. The thrill of finding remnants of a thousand-year-old dream? I would not trade it for anything.”

Jayla doesn’t see how there are obvious reasons for no one study dreams, but she’s from a place where _everything_ means something. She believes him, thought. He looks… It’s strange, the tones and he body language, it’s almost as if he enjoys exploring magic and dreams far more than he does the waking world. Not that she can really blame him, gods there is a HOLE in the sky. Exploring dreams would be infinitely more pleasant a passtime than training to kill things. 

Her head tilts as his playful, almost open expression becomes somber and serious. “I will stay then, at least until the Breach has been closed.” 

“Was that in question?” Her brow ticks upward, head shifting, her dreads catching the eyes of her companions. She can tell it’s that, because as her hair sways, their eyes follow it. It’s the silver ornaments, has to be. 

“Lady Shepard, I am an apostate mage, surrounded by chantry forces, and unlike you, I do not have a divine mark protecting me.” The slight edge to his words has her flinching. “Cassandra has been accommodating, but, you understand my caution.” 

The dancer really doesn’t in all honesty, but she is swiftly learning. She’d been given the rundown of current events and geopolitical landscapes from Josephine in the first few days of being here. Mages are the big bad, the boogie monster. The only things deemed worse are demons, and apparently, elves. Poor fuckers. In Earth literature, Elves are lauded, painted as all knowing, technologically advanced, elegant, courtly. Everyone at some point in their life, has wanted to be an elf or have an elven person in their life after some fashion. 

Not here. It’s disgusting. And the Mages? Well they get locked up in towers and lobotomized if they’re too volatile in their temperament. Shit. There are some very good reasons she doesn’t like this place. The most prominently featuring in her list.

“Solas, you came here to help us. I would be dead if not for you, and they probably would be too. I won’t let them use that desire against you.” The fierceness of her words startles her. Him too from the looks of things.

“How would you stop them?” Is.. Is he serious??

“Any goddamned way I have to! If you haven’t noticed, these people need me, need the magic in my hand. I’ll be your living, breathing shield. No one is going to harm you while I’m around.”  Again, that fierce edge to her words, where the hell is it coming from? She’s not this protective of people in general. Her eyes dart around the room. Varric looks. Fuck. He looks like he’s just gotten a Christmas gift. And Solas, well, there’s surprise lining his features, fascination too.

“Thank you.” He’s so simply accepting of that, that it makes her blink. He doesn’t, he didn’t have to, it’s not like… Ugh. THis world sucks harder than she realized if people feel the need to thank others in the same situation for doing what anyone would - should have done. A hand lifts to wave it off. She’s got blisters from staff work, cuts from her daggers, and bruising from her combat lessons dotting the landscape. It’s enough to catch the mage’s attention, and one of his hands catches hers, his brows furrowing.

“Why, da’len, have you not been to the healers to see to these?” 

Jayla snorts, gently pulling her hand away from his. “They have more important things to do than worry about my bumps and bruises. There are soldiers recovering, survivors from the cataclysm to watch over. I’m fine, I’ve dealt with worse, this barely even registers as an inconvenience.” Her feet, for example, are a mess. He’d likely cringe if he saw the state of them. Dancer’s feet are not pretty.

Those lines aren’t smoothing out. It’s fairly clear, that Solas has opinions on the matter. She sucks in a breath, “really, don’t worry about it. I need the callouses that those blisters will form. The cuts suck, and the bruises are tender, but they’re just small things. Plus, pain reminds you that you’re alive. Let me keep my reminders.”  

His lips part, and Jayla is bracing herself for the so called apostate to begin a lecture, however, his food arrives. There must also be something on her face, too, because he doesn’t launch into a tirade. Solas simply sighs, rather put upon, and thanks Flissa for her service before withdrawing his hands and tucking in. Jayla orders and ale for Varric, more wine, and cobbler for herself. This is definitely a cobbler worthy day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 13 DEC 17


	2. A Rocky Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and Jayla talk. Sort of.

Solas had raged at the healers when he’d finally been allowed to see to the prisoner. She was practically blue, and that was quite worrying given her dark complexion. The deep tone of her skin, which should be warm by his estimation, was ashy, her breathing labored, her clothing, such as it was, beyond inadequate for the conditions she’d been left in. The humans would cow, not even under the full fury of Solas’ glare. All the idiot man had said, was that it shouldn’t matter much if the Divine’s murderer lied for died - even as her mark cracked and hissed, a scream ripping through the hut, the boom of the Breach expanding did nothing to sway the human’s opinion. 

Those fools would have been content to let her die. 

Solas has never had much love for humans. They had always been capricious, greedy, and ultimately so much  _ less _ than the People, his people. Those that came before, not the remnants and shadows he walks among now. Still, he’d needed to save the quick-blooded woman.  So, his mana had been poured into the mark that threatened to consume her in it’s quest to find a home. It had been a trial. 

Her aura snapped, attacked, flailing wildly as it tried to settle, tried to heal and push the anchor out from her body. He’d never seen anything like it in all his years. He’d never known magic to be so self-preserving. It had taken him some days to get the aura to settle around her, and the mark - her mark now - to be reigned in. It hadn’t even been truly tamed, just quieted, stabilized as much as he could. It was a paltry thing, sad, that he could not simply take the anchor from the young one’s hand. He was yet too weak still to reclaim it. 

She will be another wash of blood on his hands, even if it didn’t run right at that moment. 

When it was clear the human woman wouldn’t wake, Solas strode from the healer’s cabin, making for the Temple. He had to try once more, just once more to seal the tears this catastrophe had caused. That the durgen’len had accompanied him was only a hindrance. He could not use all of the magic at his disposal with a companion. Worse, if he could not seal the tear, or stop them from becoming larger, he would have had to knock the man out, leaving him to a demon so he might escape. Might escape to form some plan to salvage the plans wrecked by a miscalculation.  His surprise, his shock, when Cassandra had charged into the fray, the young woman behind her, eyes dilated with terror, the scent of fear clinging to her skin, was indescribable. 

He witnessed and felt the way her aura snapped at her urging, taking the strangest forms. Her shield was large, oddly penetrable by bodies but not magic, the fire she summoned came in the form of hammers. Hammers that she lobbed into the fray, that did not burn them, that she beat demons back with. For all her fear, the adrenaline and survival instinct she showed in those moments was impressive. Impresses him still, truth be told. 

Their introduction had been, strange. Her words were common, or some form here of, but not understandable in the least. Her tone and body language told the Mage all he needed to know, even as he reached out to trace a rune of translation onto the skin of her throat. Oddly soft and unblemished skin, like that of her face and arms and legs.  The dark woman nearly slapped him for his troubles. Her first words to him were harsh - and all too common. “Don’t fucking touch me! What did you do?!”

Trust was, and is, lacking in the woman with hair that reminds him of when he’d been young. She kept to Cassandra’s side, spoke little with Varric, but couldn’t bring herself to so much as look at Solas beyond a handful of times. It had made his blood boil, assuming it was because of his ears, his heritage and the magic he’d affected through her.

Yet, when Varric asks after her strange accent, she floors them all by naming a place unfamiliar to Thedosians.  Fade dwellers or otherwise, as luck would have it. “Honolulu,’ had been her clipped response, only to be followed by a sharp, “where the hell am I?”  

He watched as the mark sparked, as the ground shook as the Breach overhead expanded as they trekked toward the ruins of Andraste’s temple. The woman, Jayla, shook her hand, gritted her teeth, and kept walking. Not once did her steps falter, and he knew she must be in pain. The magic is foreign, much like an infection, and the body would be attacking it, trying to get it  _ out _ . And so long as the anchor and Breach flared together, the ‘infection’ would attempt to spread. 

Yet she made no sound of discomfort.

A will like that was, it was, it was more than he’d originally thought she could possess. More than he had allowed, given her species. At the second rift, the young woman had practically flown at the demons. There was - is - raw potential in her, but practiced grace that carried her through it all. Her spells were, and are, terribly crude, and yet all together refined. She pulls at the core concepts of the elements and gives them shapes not even the People or Evanuris had in days long past. Arrows and bows formed from fire, arrows that explode when they hit upon their target. Projectiles of arcane energy that burst from her in arcs, a healing spell that had burst forth from her in a glitter of golden shine, coating all on the field she’d identified as allies with soothing magic, healing magic, while it viciously burnt the foes. 

She is a marvel with such magic, and yet the humans would kill her given half a chance.

Roderick, for all that he was playing at attempting to keep the calm and keep his station, made an enemy of Jayla in very short order upon that first meeting with her. His order, with ruddy cheeks and terrified eyes, for her to be dragged to a cell and kept to be tried before a court, for a crime she had no part in, had rankled him. But, it had been like watching a cat be backed into a corner by another predator in regards to Jayla. Her dark eyes narrowed, tension lined her shoulders, and drawn her muscles ever tighter. Her comments cut through the air and man like any sword, and she walked on. Her fear still hung on the air, but she walked forward into what had been another series of gruesome battles with her head held high, hands throwing her hair into a knot at the base of her neck before they began to climb.

She had shivered in her mercenary gear, and Solas had wondered in that moment, where her clothing had gone. It’s clearly gone, but who had violated her by changing them? She’d made no mention of hospitality, and he doubted he would, though quip after quip and dig after dig about her treatment filled the relative silence of their ascent. The higher the altitude the more she talked, the faster she moved. It was quite a fascinating display. At the time he’d scented just barely, the renewed scent of fear, but it was coated under still blistering hot anger. 

She quickly proved herself to be just as handy as she was a liability. But in those hours, she was fueled almost entirely by emotion, fear, anger, the need to survive. He didn’t know what would happen  _ now _ . Now where she was being taught by circle magi, where her fear and anger were gone. Now that her magic is to be fueled by nothing more than her own determination. 

THeir walk through the tunnels had been clear enough. Two skirmishes with wraiths and shades, a single moment where the Prisoner, Jayla, dove into a side room, back quickly, several books shoved hastily into a too small pack. Quite a sight. But the humor found in that moment amongst them had died not five minutes later, when she stepped from the mine doors and promptly tripped over a dead soldier. It was a near thing, but the woman did not scream, nor did she vomit or cry. Instead, she quickly did some nature of right over them, before taking off like a shot down the road. They’d had no choice but to do the same, and barreled right into the demons who had been stumbled upon by Cassandra’s lost patrol.

He’d watched, annoyed with her recklessness, as Jayla taunted the demons from the quarry. Watched as she darted around without having even a seeming shred of a plan, but pelting magic at demons until she had a clear shot to wrench closed the tear in the veil. And she did so with nothing more than a motion that her magic leapt to respond to. Where he had thrust her hand into the green aura of the rift, she flung her hand at it, appeared to grab, and pulled it shut, leaving behind a burst of magic intended to seal something. It was strange, yet ultimately, effective. He still hasn’t quite made sense of mer methods. 

When the skirmish was done, she’d cast another strange healing spell, this one drawing forth an odd looking well, and instructed the soldiers to drink from it. The force of the spell leaves her ashen, more so after the soldiers do as they are told. Cassandra had taken the time to speak with the scouts and Solas took the opportunity to sidle up next to her, carefully and wordlessly offering her a vial of lyrium. One no bigger than his forefinger, and purported to be no stronger than wine. He personally did not use lyrium, he never would. Titans blood corrupted as surely as the blight did, but he carried it, carries it now, for appearances sake. 

Her hand had waved him off. Her words of refusal something to the effect of, “I will never take a drug unless I am going to die.” Another oddity amongst hundreds with her. _Every_ mage knew not to stretch themselves too thin, too far. There is too much chance that their personal talent, when stretched reed thin, could kill them, or render them without a connection to the Fade. Tranquil in all but name. Jayla clearly had no knowledge to that effect. WHen he’d attempted an explanation, she again denied him. “I will not take a drug, Solas. Accept it, or fuck off.”

She’d taken off down the mountain then, apparently eager to get away from the sentiment and death that had been the mountaintop. That eagerness was swept away when she spotted the first burnt corpse, twisted into a gruesome display by the dead’s fear. The stench that had still permeated he place was enough to make the Apostate’s stomach roll uncomfortably, and he knew it had the same effect on a sheet white seeker and much paler dwarven rogue. Jayla, however, didn’t have the same constitution as the rest. She walked two steps to the left, and emptied hers. Not that she’d presumably been fed or given drink upon waking if the way her body heaves and shakes is any indication. Her complexion went from pain ashen, to sickly near white, a grey cast to her skin. It makes her beauty marks show in rather stark contrast for him to catalog for no reason other than to know the woman holding his anchor. There is one above her left eye, two smaller at the corner of each eye. 

The trek into the crater of the Temple is silent, deathly silent. The prisoner had dared to bark at the seer to be respectful of the dead when the other woman had tried to point out where they’d found her, amongs conspicuously human shaped rocks. For the prisoner to demand such from a Seeker is strange. No more strange than the way the dark woman made her steps carefully, never touching the still smoldering bodies, murmuring what can only be prayers for them in a strange language until the first Rift came into proper view. That had been when the stream of cursing had begun. He caught Antivan, what sounded like Rivanese, and an Anderfels dialect. It was, jarring. He’d suspected Jayla was no proper lady of human court, for all her unblemished skin, and soft hands, but Solas hadn’t expected quite that much obscenity from her. 

And as with the second and third rifts Jayla had faced, she dove into the fray with this one as well. Her ferocity no doubt fueled by the vision of a young elf who had picked up the orb. She seemed, pained, remorseful over what fragments had been shown to them.  It left Solas with questions, multitudes of them, but cemented in the SEeker and Spymistress mind, the mark’s divine nature. 

She’d thrown chains of lightning at the pride demon, with such force it stunned the poor twisted spirit. He’d been amazed, Pride demons favor lightning magic, and usually seem impervious to it, something about Jayla and her aura negate that. She anchors it for a time whenever the opportunity has presented itself, a beam of bright golden light cast around an arm or leg and once, around it’s neck. 

And the Prisoner did not spell cast standing still, as circle mages tended to. She darted through the battle, blasting healing spells into the fray, the kind that bathes an area in gold and burns foes. It was a solid tactic, as the energy hit more of their people. Solas had been a touch awed at her foresight in casting, and more than impressed as he witnessed her drag a man back from the doorstep of death, her teeth grit in pain before she’d whipped around to the rift and slammed it shut. She ripped it from the air before the battle was over, and the sheer force of the magical backlash had taken the small mage to the ground once more, out like a candle wick in the wind. 

It had been the second near death of hers that Solas had witnessed. He hasn’t got much hope for the future.

 

“Goddamn it, Stop!  Stop trying to make me use that fucking thing, I don’t need it, I don’t want it!” Her shrill, angry cry has Solas wandering toward the training grounds. He’s aware that Jayla is expected to learn to control her magic. He is also painfully aware that the council that had taken over since the Divine’s demise doesn’t trust him still, for all he’s done to benefit them.  It is a bit of a sore spot for him. Solas is aware of the way Jayla’s magic manifests, has seen her in battle, and yet, he had not been the one approached to teach her. Circle magi had been deemed more suitable, and clearly, Jayla was not feeling the same way. 

It takes little for Solas to find the young woman, not with the way her voice carries in the mountain air. She stands in the training yard cordoned off for her exclusively, it is farther from the gate, separated from the bulk of the army. Separated rather conspicuously from where the Templars, former Templars, might see the odd manifestation of her magic. She stands before an Enchanter, her fury radiating off her in the form of heat, warping the way the world looks in her immediately vicinity. The intensity of the glare those dark eyes have pinned to the trainer, has rendered the woman apparently immobile, the staff in her hand listing to the left in the woman’s feeble grip. 

“M-my lady, please, all mages u-use a staff to focus their powers and prevent magical backlash. It is the proper way!” The protest is weak, much like the girl’s teacher, and it’s got Solas shaking his head. If she can intimidate her teacher hus already, she will never learn how to control herself, or her talent. She’d be of no use to them as she currently is, constantly being taught, never allowed a moment’s peace unless she’s sequestered within her cabin. 

He’s been watching her, learning her through her actions alone. SOmething made necessary by her assigned teachers, schedules and the way she had avoided him until just a few nights past. That dinner where the atmosphere had become heavy as they spoke. 

That dinner, her assurance that he would never be taken against his will, was fascinating. Her instinctive and snarled reply had changed his view of her. Volatile, but loyal. She reminds him of a young alpha trying to get her legs beneath her. It would not be long, and she’ll be a force to be contented with. Solas can feel it. Her personality is too strong, her will unbendable. He feels an alien pleasure that this woman survived, that this woman holds his power in her palm, rather than the pale child who had had the misfortune of picking up his orb. 

Even with his magic sliding it’s way into her bones, the years she has before her, will shape her into a guiding force for the world. He can see it, already her ways are too foreign, and she is garnering the interest of fringe mages and templar alike. He wonders idly, while watching the debacle of a lesson, if he could mold her, were he to be et near her. If he could, perhaps he could turn her to his favor, his People’s favor, give them better odds of succeeding in correcting his terrible mistake. 

“I really don’t give a shit what ‘all mages’ do. Clearly that’s not correct. I don’t like the feel of it, it makes my skin buzz uncomfortable.” The sullen nature of Jayla’s reply has Solas snapping to attention. It is not often a mage has the talent or wherewithal to forgo a staff. Diminished as he is, the additional focus was only a boon to him. In the past, at his height he never needed a staff, truly he did not need the foci for more than mana storage, but he was among the few, beyond the Evanuris there were perhaps several dozen of the people with the same talent. Those several dozen all chained to the pantheon. That Jayla cannot stand to  _ touch  _ a staff is indicative of such talent. That she so willingly tosses aside the benefits of it, however, is curious. Keen eyes watch as the elder mage winces, rallying after several moments, and feeling himself become annoyed. 

“You were a part of a circle, My Lady. You learned to do this the proper way once before, and you will again.” That tone makes the Herald’s hackles rise. There is no two ways about it, he can see it, the way she bristle physically. It’s a slight change but clear enough. He can even see the moment when her patience snaps. She clenches her fists, back taught as she pulls herself to her full height. She is equal to Leliana, just a touch lesser than Cassandra in height, but no where near himself or the Commander. And though the Herald, Spymistress and Seeker are of similar shape, there is something infinitely softer about Jayla.  It’s not something a person could ignore, especially the way she is now. There is no wall of metaphorical ice between her and the Enchanter, just raw anger out in the open. 

“Dairsmuid taught me less than nothing about what it is to be a proper mage. It was home to seers who would refine their craft under the Chantry’s supervision. What I learned was from hedgwitches, women from outside your damned circles, who came to hone their craft. They were never broken and fit into a mold. So tell me again what is proper, I dare you.” 

He blinks, ears twitching. She is no great fan of rules then. Certainly not those pertaining to a Chantry controlled Circle at the very least. It certainly seems as if the lessons that had been organize to refresh the woman’s memory, the History of Thedas, that the horrific nature of Circles has been made known to her once more. The Fade Walker feels a weight lift from his shoulders at the realization. She is mutable. He steps forward, away from the shadows of Haven’s walls, and into the training circle as the disagreement begins to devolve.

“Lady Shepard, Enchanter Kleri, if I may interject?” The Herald’s eyes catch his in mere seconds and leaves them in the next. Her nod, sharp as it is, is enough for him, though the fact the Enchanter nods as well, rather defeatedly, makes this much easier. Even though Solas hates the circles and feels these Magi are children at best, laughable at worst, he has a grudging respect for them. They had not lost, but fostered their connection to the Fade, their talents. There is much to be said for that, and none of it in favor of the way the Circles were run.

“The Lady is clearly not going to be an easy student to teach. She has too much instinct and muscle memory of  hedge magic with too little of her Circle training to draw upon. I do not think Circle methods will help her to regain control of her talent. We must take an alternative approach to her studies, I would be most happy to lend my assistance to the endeavor.” He catches from his peripheral vision the way the Herald stiffens. He doesn’t scent fear on her, only agitation still, though that is muted.

“We are the  **appointed** tutors for the Herald,  _ Apostate _ , we have little need of your assistance on the matter.” An older man speaks from the opposite side of the training yard. Clearly he is no longer a fighter, his hands gnarled, skin flecked with age spots. Solas allows the hurled insult to wash over and off of him. There are far worse things to be than an Apostate. 

“I am sure, Ser, my addition to the ranks would only benefit the Herald. I’ve a different grasp on magic, a different method of imparting information -”

“We know what you are. You make no secret of it. An untrained, unchecked hedge mage, happily cavorting around the Fade. You’re going to get us all killed or possessed.” 

He pinches at the bridge of his nose as the last, and youngest of the tutors pipes in, giving her two bits as well, as crassly as she can. Solas can’t fathom this behavior. Were they so insulted by the very air they breathed? There are plenty of different approaches to magical theory, and more than one way to teach it. Not only that, it would likely take four or more teachers rather than just three, to get the woman back up to par, or whatever passed for it, before the end of this war. He is simply attempting to address her aversion to staves, and offer alternative views. Sucking in a deep breath, Solas readies himself for an argument.

“Have a care, Enchanter. We are all members of the Inquisition.” Jayla’s voice cracks like a whip through the cold mountain air before she turns to him. “Solas, walk with me, if you would. I am done with my lesson today.” For him, her voice is calm, commanding even. A look over at her reveals, for all that her voice can turn people to ice, she is melting the snow covering the training area. When his eyes find hers, he is met with molten, enraged orbs of umber brown, trained not on him, but her appointed tutors, as if daring them all to say another word. His head tilts, ears twitching minutely with interest. How easy it is for her to slip into a role of command with a group of what amounts to as her betters. That bode well for the future, if poorly for her education.

He stays silent as he holds her look for a long, pregnant moment before she takes off, heading in the direction of Druffalo ridge. There are rather verbale and loud protests from her tutors, and the Wolf is amused to see the Herald doesn’t so much as twitch in their direction. Young Queen indeed. She’d find her footing before the year is out.

Together they walk from the village proper, away from the noise of the training yards, out of the paths of pilgrims and traders, past Taigen’s cabin, still standing unused, and out into the clearing beyond the outer wall. She stomps through the meager copse of trees, and he follows, not stopping until she does. Even then, the girl is still radiating heat, enough that the snow hisses around them as it melts. A frustrated, angry cry rips from her throat, making him jolt. It’s loud, feral, and more than a little bit broken.

“Lady -”

“Don’t, don’t call me that, please, Solas. I’m not a Lady. I’m just some mage who tumbled from one world into another.”  She is tired, it lines her face, seeps into her words. ‘ _ We’ve not even started our quest yet, and already the stress wears upon her’ _ Solas shakes his head, dismissing the thought. She is stressed, but she would overcome it - she has to.

“As you say, Jayla. What would you have of me?” Best to get right to it. The faster she tells him what she wants, the faster he can do so and return to his research. There is much to be prepared for. He has to know how much he _should_ know by shem’len magical standards, and what, to them, is impossible. He needs to find a way to remove the anchor from this woman’s hand, and research just how strong the veil is. Truly, they are in similar boast, he and Jayla, though neither of them knows it.

“I need you to teach me what the Enchanters refuse to. I don’t know the first thing about controlling magic, not even what the first steps are. They keep throwing books at me, and expect me to just  _ know _ .  Kleri is the worst about it, insisting I use a focus. She doesn’t listen when I tell her I am not comfortable forcing my magic through that damned walking stick!” Sparks dance along her skin. Their appearance makes his eyes narrow.  First she embodies fire, and now she expresses lightning. Two of the four basic magical elements, so clearly her school will be based in the primal forces. If, that is, he, or anyone, can get her to conform to the magical foundations they recognize.

“I cannot teach you if I am unaware of what your capabilities are,” he keeps his words measured, and his stance shifts as he speaks, just enough, his feet now shoulder width apart. “Which requires that we spar.” 

“You’ve seen me fight,” Jayla counters, tone wary.

“You were under a massive amount of duress at the time, unfed, without water, without proper rest. That is hardly a good base to use so I may judge your ability and educate you.” Raising a hand, his staff comes off his back, and he sets the bladed end into the snow. “You will spar with me, Herald, or you will deal with only the Circle mages’ teachings.” 

Another feral sound leaves the dark woman, and she squares herself off toward him. “Fine.”

Whatever Solas expected from her, it was not to witness her exploding into flame, taking to the air as if born to it. Nor was he expecting her to throw that fire at him. He has a breath to get his barrier up, and narrowly does so in time. Wonder fills him as he watches her, but it is short lived. He is here to test her strange magic, not be awed by it.

The elven man pulls at the veil, and slams her onto the ground with a half powered veilstrike. Not enough to injure or kill her, but enough to smother the flames and make her gasp for air. He is gratified when Jayla does not stay down on the ground for long.

When she is on her feet, a cloud of mist rolls into the clearing, thick, hard to see through, and Solas swears. It unnatural, filled with the taste of her magical aura, but damnably effective. He doesn’t see her coming; though he feels the way she pulls at the veil, yet ot at the fade itself, blinking out of existence only to pop up behind him. It is not unlike a Fade Step, and he has just enough time to catch her in the ribs with the lower end of his staff, where wood meets metal. He tries to not take  _ too _ much pleasure in her cry of pain.

It is a short lived moment of victory, as lightning starts to arch in the mist. Perhaps i is wrong to call it mist. He watches the way the electricity jumps from place to place. Clearly it is a cloud, and Jayla has no charged it. Solas draws his barrier tight against his skin, and he floods the makeshift training ground with his aura, searching her out. She is relying on what Leliana’s people have been teaching her,just as much as she leans on her small amount of magical knowledge. She veils herself not in shadows, as Varric might, but with the veil itself. 

It is a dangerous manipulation, likely only facilitated by the anchor on her hand, but all the same, Solas applauds her. Had the veil not his magic, he would not feel her at all. He aims a stone fist, feeling for where she will appear before letting it loose. 

Down she goes again, but the spry little thing is back on her feet in moments. Healing herself, he realizes with a start, as she darts forward, bringing the dull blade of her practice dagger to catch on the cloth of his tunic as he employs a Fade step to narrowly avoid her. They go on like this, back and forth, back and forth. Solas presses his advantage, cataloging the ways her magic manifests and there are many. He watches her movements as she wills arrows into beings, as she throws projectile after projectile of pure energy at him, four bursts at a time in some cases, or in single intensely large balls of energy. The urge to laugh fills him when she freezes him in place only to retreat, using the same trick of mist to cover her. He singest her tunic. She nearly takes off one of his ears. Solas catches her in the stomach with his staff, always keeping the blade well away from her less protected spots, and she manages to land a sound punch that has a jolt of electricity in it against his cheek. 

Jayla manipulates vines to rise from the frozen earth and hold him, darting into the trees before he can free himself of them. She’s likely trying to catch her breath or replenish her mana for a moment. Such a short break will do little for her, but he admires her for trying. He respects how long this spar has been, and how resilient the Herald is. Even so, Jayla still ends up with her back in the snow, Solas hovering over her, the end of his staff place ever so carefully against her chest.  There is stubborn pride in her eyes, one that resonates far too easily and too well with the apostate. He presses down a touch, and raises a brow.

“Do you yield, Herald?” 

The young woman spits a curse before nodding sullenly. For all that this had been intended to just be a simple gauge f her ability, it had devolved into something nearing a true spar. Still, it had worked, in its way. Solas knew she had a hold on herself, a good one in truth, though she expends far too much of herself in her casting. He lifts his staff away from her, offering his hand.

“I will teach you what I can. If I were anyone else, Jayla, I would be telling you to form your magic differently. I will not, it is alien, and it will give you an edge in the coming battles. What I will tell you, is that we must refine the way you cast. You use far too much energy in your attacks and it wears you out too quickly. Tomorrow, we will begin, shall we say dawn? Before you break the night’s fast.”

The way she looks at him has the elf letting out a sharp bark of laughter. Clearly the young woman is unaccustomed to being up as early as she has been. She dusts herself free of snow, sighing heavily. “If that’s when you want to do this, then that’s when it’ll happen. It isn’t as if I have a lot of leisure time to choose from to slot in the extra training. Leliana has her people beating me into the dirt most of the day, and early evenings are spent in the company of the Ambassador. It’s almost ridiculous. They are trying to teach me a lifetime of knowledge in a month.” The bitter note in her words does not go unnoticed.

“You should be pleased they did not simply throw you to the wolves, Herald. Had you been Elven, they would have left you to flounder.” He can’t tolerate self-pitying humans. It makes his remarks sharper than they need to be, and those dark eyes flash dangerously.

“Excuse me?” 

“I believe you heard what I had to say, Herald. As you, yourself said last night, you are needed by them, by this fledgling Inquisition. It is a boon to those in power that you are human. A human Herald looks far better than a dwarf, a kossith, or stars forbid - an elf. You are afforded another education here, at great detriment to the organization. This time would be better spent on the road, making connections and following leads. There are people here to train you, to guard you, they feed you all at the expense of the Inquisition. Or did you simply assume that Flissa gives you food out of the goodness of her heart?”

It’s a bit like what Jala feels being dipped in acid might feel like. A sharp sting that burns the farther it settles in. A verbal slap. Because she had complained. A single moment in which she was simply stating facts, venting her displeasure, and now she was being chewed out for it? She becomes irritated quickly. Alarmingly quick, actually. 

She isn’t from this world, she isn’t a fighter, and she sure as fuck would not be painted as some privileged asshole. Not by him, not by anyone. “I can’t control my race any more than you can,  _ Ser _ . I do not operate under any illusion that this is going to be an easy task. I am  _ well aware _ of just how much time I am taking up. Apparently wasting according to you. I saw those demons, I pulled shut the tears on the mountain side. I saw the dead men and women that littered the landscape, Solas. I smelled the burnt flesh. I am not ungrateful - I’m fucking irritated. My magic doesn’t make sense to minds deemed superior to mine, and thus I am a liability. The Commander keeps a weather eye upon me, have no fear of that, Solas, should I become an abomination he will take care of it. I am tired, and I am unused to the rigors of his life. What happened just moments ago? When I spoke negatively - it’s called venting, you gigantic eggheaded bastard. I’m allowed to do that, it’s cathartic. And if you don’t think catharsis in this situation is useful, well, you can take your lessons and shove them up your ass! I’m sure they’ll fit right next to the stick that is already lodged in there.” 

Incensed beyond wanting to reason with him, or even be civil, Jayla stalks away from the mage, and when she hears him follow her, she shrouds herself, taking off toward the peer. It’s dangerous, and a bit stupid, but Jayla doesn’t want to deal with being treated like a child, or worse, a petulant child who doesn’t know better. She creeps along the frozen lake, back to the far pier, remembering barely to call wind to keep her footprints from being easily followed. The shroud is allowed to fall when she reaches the gates of Haven. There are gasps, but she pays them no mind. It’s time to grab some food, and speak to Josie. She’d ask if someone could explain to the Circle mages that if they wanted some kind of success with her, they needed to give her the most basic of building blocks to work with first. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know how to describe this whole interaction. But Jayla is definitely cheating using her magic so she doesn't have to rely on actual sneaking like a real rogue would lol. And blink, much more useful than a fade step. 
> 
> As always, comments feed and motivate me. I hope you all enjoyed it. Also, all mistakes are mine, as I am forever without a beta.
> 
> *Updated/Revised 15 DEC 2017


	3. Sleep Sweet Da'len

When she sleeps, Jayla drops straight into the Fade. It is a jarring experience for her, she still feels as if she is awake. But this is not her cabin, and there are none of the nighttime noises of Haven around her. There is a slight chill in the air, but this place – she doesn’t know it. It’s nothing like what she usually dreams. The forest is vast, denser than any she’s ever seen. The trees are old, reminding her of the sequoia parker her cousin had taken her too when she went for spring break to California.

“Gorgeous…” The word is barely a whisper as her fingers trail on the bark of the biggest tree she has ever seen. It was bigger than the one you could drive a car through, and she can’t even see where its lowest branches are. She is content to wander the forest and learn what other wonders it might hold for the night. She can see people, strangely transparent people, darting in and out of the trees. There is no rhyme or reason to it, but it looks something like a game. It brings a smile to her face, until the crack of a twig behind her has her snapping to attention. Her breath stills in her chest, hand on a tree, not moving. That could be anything, a bear, a person, a wolf, a dragon, the possibilities are endless, and frankly, Jayla would rather not know what is now watching her.

She can feel the eyes on her, can sense the tension that now permeates this part of the forest. She doesn’t know how long the standoff lasts, but the figure behind her moves again, and Jayla bolts. Instinctively she pulls for her shroud and runs. The laughter behind her is cruel and highly amused. It makes the human’s blood run cold, and push to move faster. The underbrush crunches under her feet, pulls at her pants, while Jayla moves, terror driving her.

It doesn’t terrify her so much as shock her when something collides with her. What is strange is the lack of pain as she is taken to the forest ground. The pounding of the blood rushing through her, however, makes that revelation fade quickly into the background. When she turns onto her back, dirt clinging to her chin, neck, and hands, there is an Elven woman standing over her. There is a bow in her hands, and an arrow trained on Jayla. Her heart stutters with fear, which makes the Archer grin darkly, as if she could hear it.

“Da’halla, ane tel shem.” The words are delivered by a lyrical voice, but it doesn’t hide the malice infused within the words. Jayla scrambles back, keeping her wide eyes on the woman who watches her with amusement.

“Please don’t.” Jayla has never been a person to sound timid, but right now, to seem meek would only help her. At least she prays it will help her. If it doesn’t – well, then today she dies. And Jay has no intention of dying today. It seems, it’s going to be the latter. The arrow is loosed, and the dark woman throws herself to the side to avoid it. It misses her, narrowly, and she takes off like a terrified beast.

“Josa vis ma elana da'halla!” The laughing words spur her to get the hell out of this forest. She needs to be far, far away. Somewhere safe. Somewhere that crazed Archer wouldn’t find her. Abruptly Jay is face to face with a wolf the size of a horse, perhaps larger. Her hands clap over her mouth to keep herself from screaming, even as her heart pounds in her chest. It is black as night and has six glowing eyes. A monster? Its breath hits her face, humid and rank, making her close her eyes and drop to her knees. It knew she was alive, playing dead wouldn’t save her.  The sound of whistling makes her flinch to the side, a screech leaving her when it catches her in the side. An arrow. Fuck. Fuck that hurts, but yet, it doesn’t at the same time. It only makes her gasp, eyes wide as she looks at the offending projectile. The Herald feels pain, but muted, like it isn’t really hers to feel.

Landing on the ground, breathing heavy as she hears laughter and the word da’halla again, Jayla doesn’t know what to do. The archer had found her. Caught between an archer and a wolf. Jayla whimpers, and curls in on herself as the muzzle of the beast comes close to her. It doesn’t bite, which scares her all the more, instead it uses its snout to prod at her wound, making her cry out pitifully. What happens next doesn’t make even the smallest bit of sense to Jayla. The wolf, it stands over her, one paw at her back, the other near her chest, snarling, but not at her. It’s snarling at the elven woman who had been tracking her, hunting her.

Perhaps it is trying to protect its kill? Jayla doesn’t know. There are words floating around her, one’s lyrical and ones barked out harshly. It doesn’t make sense. Footsteps retreat and the wolf moves to her back. It lays behind her, snout moving to the arrow, taking it in its mouth – and tugging it out. A scream rips its way from Jayla’s throat.

She bolts up right in the bed, and promptly cries out again. The cabin is on fire. How? She scrambles for the door only for it to burst open before she can get to it. The hulking figure of Commander Cullen comes into view. Jayla is thankful, relieved. It’s a very fleeting feeling, one taken over by excruciating pain that drops her to the floor. She’s never felt anything like it, like part of her being ripped away. It lasts only a few breaths, but feels like an eternity. When it passes, she curls into a ball, flinching when she feels people approaching her. Abruptly she is being picked up, and she yells, electricity sputtering on her hands, when one clamps on a wound the herald hadn’t known she still had. Her mind clears enough to see it is Cassandra who has picked her up, and Solas standing between her and the Commander.

Beyond that, Jayla has no idea what is going on. There is yelling happening, but she can’t figure out the words. Hurts too much to focus. Her eyes roll in her head before blackness takes her.

“Are you mad or simply ignorant?!” Solas has never been so angry. When the first whiff of smoke had caused enough alarm, the bells had been run, dragging him from the fade, he had panicked. There was yelling that the Herald’s cabin had caught flame and he knew. She’d been terrified in the dream, likely hadn’t realized it was a dream, and now.

Flying from his bed, he had run for the cabin, wearing breaches but no foot wraps or shirt. Cassandra had met him just as Cullen broke the door down. Jayla had stood in the flames, her eyes wide and wild with fear. There was a spark of relief to see Cullen, before the fool shem’len had pushed a mana drain on her. Her scream would haunt him for days to come. He hopes it will haunt the Commander. The dark woman had dropped to the ground, curling into a ball, that was when he and Cassandra moved forward. He’d have expected Varric to be the one who came to the Herald’s call, and he had come not moments later, face white and worried. But Cassandra is the one to pull the Herald into her arms, to stand defiant against the Commander.

“She is a danger! She set her own cabin on fire! I told you she needed a Templar with her. She is a liability.” The words are barked at Cassandra, Cullen clearly hoping the woman will be on his side. Solas tastes blood as he bites his cheek to keep from physically assaulting the man.

“You just attacked the Herald of Andraste you fool.” He spits the words out, shaking his head, keeping himself between the Templar and the now unconscious Mage. “She was terrified and you – with brute force, took her mana. It could have killed her, she has no hold on her magic. You know this, you know what a drain like that can do! Look at her!” Solas gestures wildly at the shaking woman within Cassandra’s arms. Her skin is ashen, her breathing shallow, and there is blood on her side. He curses himself. He should have – there was no fixing it now.

“I stand by what I did, Solas. She is a danger to herself and others. She is not learning fast enough.” Cullen’s voice is cold and it makes Cassandra’s head shake. Her harshly accented words cut into their argument.

“You could have killed her, Commander. I would not have done as you did. She is young, has been terrified from the moment she woke, and still helps us. To kill her would be to spit on the kindness shown us, and it would doom us. She is the only one who can close the rifts, or do you forget that?” The warrior strides past the Templar, eyes hard.

“This will set us back weeks. She was beginning to trust us.”  Cassandra strides from the cabin, foot falls heavy on the dirt. Solas and Cullen are left staring one another down, with Varric idling outside. Neither says anything, but Solas has his teeth bared at the younger man who seems remorseless. The standoff has the hairs on the back of Varric’s neck standing on end.

“Chuckles, come on. Let Curly figure this out on his own. We need to go make sure Jayla is going to be okay. There was blood on her.” That alone is enough to break Solas from his anger, and he pushes past the younger man. Varric follows with a sympathetic glance at Cullen.

Adan in the healer’s cabin is having a hard time keeping Jayla calm. She’d woken and was clearly still in the grips of her terror. Solas feels his stomach drop. He’d seen that look, in the forest, when one of People, a Sentinel, had taken aim at the girl. He’d been surprised to see her so narrowly avoid the attack. More surprised when Jayla had torn through the forest. He didn’t understand how the girl had gone so deep into the Fade. He wasn’t sure she knew she had been, not right at this moment.

“Let me go. Let me go, she’ll come for me. She’ll try again. Please just let me go!” Her wails are pitiful and make his ears lay against his head. The arrow wound in her side turns his stomach, as he strides forward. His hands set on her shoulders, pushing her into the cot. Her flailing is cut in half, but it doesn’t make Adan’s job easier.

“Varric, hold her feet.” The gravel of his voice does not shock Solas. Guilt eats at him. He had insulted her this afternoon, thought to put her in her place for complaining. To see her thus, it hurts him, which surprises the old spirit. Action howls deep in his chest. They’d only barely kept her safe, and here, they had not kept her safe at all. This girl who was their only hope of putting to rights another mistake, the one who held their magic, who they needed to keep it safe guarded until their foci was returned.

“S-solas! Solas please, she’ll come for me. There isn’t a wolf here. Please, let me go. Let me hide.” Her pleading rips at him, and her eyes are. The deep pools of umber have never looked at him with such expression. Fear, desperation, pleading, all of it swirls together and stabs at him. This was his fault.

“Ir abelas, Jayla. I’m sorry, we cannot let you go, you’re hurt. You have to keep still.”  Tears spill and Solas sucks in a breath.

“V-Varric?”

“Sorry Jayla, you’ve got a nasty cut. We’ll hide you after it’s fixed, kid.” The dwarf looks as disturbed as Solas feels. Her sobs become more pronounced and a reedy wail leaves her when the poultice is finally applied with success.

“There. Keep her wrapped for a day, it’ll heal.” Adan is white as a sheet, hands trembling just a touch. “Best to get a sleeping draught in her. One that’ll push her past dreams. None of us need a repeat of this tonight.” Turning abruptly, the alchemist turned healer, washes his hands in the basin, her blood turning the water light pink.

“Where can we put her?” Varric lets go of Jayla’s ankles, and Solas pulls her into an embrace. He doesn’t know where Cassandra has gone, but she would be more suited to this. Women were far better at comforting women in his experience. But, arms wind around is torso, finger tips digging into his skin. Warm moisture wets his chest, and he sets his chin on the top of dreaded hair.

“Hush, little one. Hush. You’re safe now. You’re safe.” He has no idea what to do with her, this Herald who would keep him safe and yet could not keep herself safe. It was troubling. The wound should not have manifested in the waking world. Not for a woman like her. She had plenty of talent, but he’d not sensed anything to suggest her being a dreamer as well. Her dreams when he had gone looking in the fade were non-existent. Now they were so strong they pulled him in and injured her. The appearance of Andruil worried him, but he had seen her, watching from the trees not far from where the Sentinel had stood. The fact they had been in Arlathan Forest worried him. Too many questions and far too few answers.

“I’ll take her to my cabin, it’s warded against such things. I should have done so to her cabin when she woke. It slipped my mind.” He sighs heavily, knowing this was more than just a little his fault. The derisive snort from the dwarf behind him only solidifies the idea.

“T _hree_ mages were tasked with teaching our firebug here, you tended to her while she slept. It’s like you all forget the woman _can’t remember_ how she got here. Like you forget she knows magic but hasn’t got a clue as to what she’s doing.” Varric’s words make Solas irritated. But he does grasp upon something.

“What do you mean she doesn’t remember **how** she got here?”

“Even you should be able to see a lie when it’s presented to you, Chuckles. Dairsmuid Circle survivor? Honestly? That Circle was razed, if she got out, it was with a squad of Templars around her, not one who snuck her out in the middle of the annulment. It’s a cover story if I’ve ever heard one, and I’ve heard plenty. That girl barely knows what the Chantry is and had to be told about daily life here.  Couldn’t make sense of coins, Solas. Tell me she’s from Dairsmuid” Sharp eyes fall on Jayla who has been reduced to sniffles. Adan walks back into the cabin, a vial in his hand. He had presumably gone to the healer’s tents, outside the town gates, where the army had been sent to live in their tents. The vial is handed to him wordlessly.

“Get her out of here, and put her to sleep.” The harshness Solas had come to expect from Adan is muted. Likely because of the Herald. She makes a small, upset sound when he shifts her to sit across his lap.

“D- Jayla, you need to drink this for me. It will help.” Those eyes are pleading, and she looks so young. She looks like a lost little girl and so very scared she will be hurt. It makes Solas swallow harshly and avert his eyes. “Jayla, please.”

“Solas, she’s going to kill me.” Soft words, matter of fact. His hand sinks into her hair and tilts her head back. He does not want to be harsh, but he cannot bear to hear her say it again.

“No, da’len, she will not. Drink.” The vial is pressed to her lips and he waits until she opens to tip the whole thing into her mouth. He cringes as she chokes it down, coughing afterward. The vial is left on the cot and he stands up, shifting her into a bridal carry. Varric looks at him like he’s a monster. Perhaps he is.

“I’ll take care of her.” It’s less than convincing, but Varric nods, and holsters Bianca, looking grim. Jayla is asleep before they cross the small yard that lays between Solas’ cabin and Adan’s. Laying her on his bed, he pulls the covers over her, watching as she curls onto her side, worry and fear easing from her brow. He settles on the ground beside her, wondering what exactly how she had gone so far into the fade. Whatever had happened, it was likely connected to the anchor, and thus to him. Just another thing to attempt penance for. As if the list were not long enough already.               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares suck right? 
> 
> Da'halla ante'tel shem - Little halla, you aren't fast.  
> Josa vis ma elana da'halla - Flee if you can, little halla


	4. Clothes are sort of Important

She’s warm and surrounded by a scent that reminds her of her favorite cologne. It’s an exact match, perhaps a touch harsher than what her memory provided her with. Still, it is pleasant, and she feels safe. Jayla curls further into the blankets, sighing softly. She dozes, one foot in the Fade, the other in the waking world.

********

Solas wakes not long after the sun filters into the slats that make up the shutters covering his window. Grimacing, he unfolds himself from the cramped position he’d fallen asleep in. He fishes a restorative draught from the drawer of his desk, downs it before turning to his bed. Jayla’s face is turned three quarters of the way into the pillow, laying on her stomach. Her face is slack with peace, and again, Solas is struck by how young she is. For his people, she would be little more than a toddler. But here, here she’s considered an old maid. It makes no sense to him. These shem’len and banal’ras masquerading as his people lead lives that were like candles. Lit one moment and burning low the next. It was wrong, on so many levels. Even the first humans had lived longer than these seem to. It makes no sense.

Shaking his head, he leaves his cabin, heading for the Tavern. He’d pay for use of their tub, and then get some food for them both. It would be a long day. Yesterday, Jayla had told him to go to hell, and she’d been right to do so. He let his own prejudices cloud his view of her. Jayla was not a noble who wanted to do nothing and reap the benefits. She was a woman who worked hard, and apparently, tortured herself in the process.

He had seen her feet in the dream – has witness the way Jayla reacts to pain. Toes that had likely been broken more than once, bent at angles that were in line with the shoes the girl had worn when he first saw her. There was evidence of fractures within her legs, weakening in the ankles. Callouses on her feet that would rival any of the current Dalish. He also remembered the way she’d held herself with the anchor sputtering and clawing into her bones. She’d shaken her hand as they ran up the mountain, only ever breathing heavy. Such a contrast to her cries when the Herald had been asleep. He remembered how Cassandra had kept looking at the young woman with a rather glowing respect. Jayla handled pain better than a few warriors did. She practically embraced it, if the desire to keep bruised knuckles was any indication.

The walks into the quiet tavern, distracted by his thoughts. Money is exchanged, and he goes about bathing, enjoying the warm water while he could. Thinking about the Herald, he sighs, dunking himself below the water. He wasn’t sure how to correct his mistake with her. Wasn’t sure how much of last night the girl would remember. To see one of the Elvhen, one of their most honored servants, take aim at you, it would be jarring for her. She has yet to show any animosity toward his people, and Solas would like to keep it that way.

A wet hand runs over his face. How, though? How did he change trauma if Jayla did remember? The apostate isn’t sure that the woman even knew she’d been dreaming. It had gripped her even as she woke. The ferocity of those flames had made his heart stop, and her wail. He grits his teeth and banishes those thoughts from his mind. He cannot become distracted. The girl had to live, and he had to reclaim his orb. That was the long and short of it. If he could subtly steer her in directions that would benefit the people for a time, he would. But past that, Solas cannot let this happen again.

He scrubs himself roughly, soap doing little to cleanse him of the feeling he is doing wrong by Jayla in this. When she’d asked him to teach her control, he was surprised. Jayla had a good grasp on her outlandish magic already. All that was needed there was refinement so he’d thought. Now he knows he needs to ward her cabin, to teach her how to navigate her own dreams and keep her fear from sparking fire, or causing an earth quake or any other way it might manifest. It makes his stomach turn, to have to teach a human such things. It should not be so. Magic had been the elves dominion for eons. Shemlen had only the barest talent for it, durgenlen none at all.

Stepping from the tub, he lets himself dry naturally while shoving his clothing into the same water to clean them. He had spares, but today he’d been so out of sorts he hadn’t grabbed any. Jayla had him so distracted he’d deviated from his routine. The old man sighs, and shakes his head ruefully. He was angry, but not at her. Jayla was innocent in this, a girl in the wrong place at the wrong moment. No. Solas was upset with himself. He had trusted a deformed and corrupted thing, hoping it would die in its task. And now – he growls, scrubbing his clothes quickly, fiercely drying them afterwards with a harshly drawn fire rune. Shoving himself into them once more, he makes his way down to the tavern proper, retrieving the food and heading back to his cabin.

Remorse would consume him if he wasn’t careful. He could not twist himself or his spirit, not yet. There was far too much to be done yet. The girl was only a bump in the road. Her help would bring him back to square one, but likely no further than that. Still, it is help that he could not have given himself.

********

The young mage comes to in degrees. She notes how warm she is, this time shoving the covers away with a groan. She hates to sweat while she slept. The next thing Jayla became aware of was a small throbbing sensation on her side. Her fingers drift to investigate it. A hole in her night gown, a hole in her side, healing hole if that bandage was any indication of the healers having seen her. Huffing a breath, Jayla sits up in the bed, immediately realizing that this room, bed, cabin, is not hers. Her nose scrunches as she looks around curiously. It smelled of herbs and wood here. Comforting smells, but not what her sparsely furnished cabin smelled of.

It takes a few moments for memories to resettle within her mind. Resettle just to make her eyes shut slowly, groan, and flop back against her pillow. It had been a dream. A goddamned dream, and she’d nearly burnt her fucking cabin down. She’s filled with embarrassment. Flashes of it lance through her as she goes over what had happened. Spirits, she’s read a little about them, lived in the Fade, and she’d apparently pissed one off. Another coming to save her? Either way, Jayla wasn’t aware until last night that an injury caused in the Fade could be translated to the waking world. She also wasn’t aware that a dream could grip you so tight you beg your companion to hide you so you won’t be hunted again. Without so many words.

“I’m a fucking idiot,” she sighs into the universe, hoping that maybe it will agree and take the mark, give it to someone who can actually use it. Who has the ‘right’ magic, who can ride a horse, and fight with daggers. Anyone would be better suited to this task, more suited to this task than she is.

It takes her a while to remember how she’d ended up with Adan, Solas holding her shoulders, while barking for Varric to get her feet. It takes her a while to retrace the steps of her memories, memories drenched in fear, so much so they make her feel as if a panic attack might come. Those familiar bursts of pain that sting in her chest.

Cullen. Cullen had been there first. Cullen had done…something, to her. It had hurt like a mother fucker and dropped her like a sack of potatoes. But why? It had stopped the fire, but why did it need to be done so violently? What had he ripped from her and why with so much force? Her fingers press to her eyelids, trying to make sense of it all. She didn’t remember much after telling Solas someone was after her. So, she didn’t know who’s cabin she’d commandeered. Hopefully, no one had seen, or heard her last night. Hopefully the flames hadn’t scarred the outside of the building. This wasn’t good. The Ambassador was all about appearances, and the Herald being out of control, burning her cabin in her sleep? It’ll be a wonder that Templars aren’t stationed around her all day, every day.

She’s so caught in her thoughts, that Jayla doesn’t hear the creak of Solas’ door opening. Doesn’t hear his intake of breath either. For all that Jayla, had shown up in Thedas wearing revealing garments, Solas hadn’t taken notice of her. He knew she was built strongly, that much was undeniable, had noted the differences with a once over of her. However, he hadn’t _looked_ at her. He didn’t see her, all of her. But with her on his bed, blankets and furs shoved to the end of it, light illuminating her from behind, that delicate but practical shift the only thing covering her? Now he saw her. Saw that her legs seemed to go on for miles, strong calves, strong thighs. Her stomach is just barely rounded, a hint of soft on a frame made for power. He can note the way, thanks to the light, her bottom swells, the barest hint of space between the small of her back and the bed. He can make out the shape of her breasts, generous but not overflowing. Those arms he has seen time and time again – they are familiar to him. Muscled, but not as Cassandra’s were, nor Leliana’s. Strength, but just enough to do whatever it was she did before becoming part of the Inquisition. Her hair spills over his pillow, an ink stain on formerly pristine paper.

When he clears his throat, Jayla’s head whips toward him, hands staying where they were. Brown eyes go wide when she sees Solas, the food in his hands. Scrambling to sit up in the bed, her cheeks burn, though the elven man wouldn’t know – the blessing of dark skin.

“Solas! I – this is your cabin?” Her eyes sweep over the place, and yes, this was certainly Solas’ space. Varric had described him as a homebody researcher. There were certainly enough books to fill a good-sized home library here. A stack by his desk, more than five scattered across that. There’s little in the way of personal flare, just a small trunk and his bed, journals at the side. Jayla would love for the floor to open and swallow her up right now.

“Yes, Herald. I thought it best for you to sleep where there were wards. I hope I didn’t take liberties?” His brow raises, expecting an answer from her. Jayla shakes her head. Liberties. Lord, he’d – he’d kept her safe. Her hands come up to rub roughly at her face and she swings her legs from the bed.

“Thank you. This is twice now you’ve done something for me, and this time I took over your house. I’m sorry. I’ll repay you.” She hates being beholden to anyone, and the man has literally saved her life. It’s the ultimate debt. One Jayla doesn’t know how to even start attempting to make even.

Solas snorts, coming to the bedside and placing the tray on the table near it. He pulls up a chair moments later, and indicates for Jayla to grab something from the tray. There are tankards of milk, likely goat, Jayla hasn’t seen any cows around Haven, and then a single mug something that looks suspiciously like coffee. Oh, sweet rolls! A small girlish sound of delight leaves her as she plucks one roll from the mound of a half dozen. Delicately she rips into the thing, stuffing a piece in her mouth.  All while Solas watches her.

“You don’t owe me anything, Jayla. I should have been more watchful, your teachers, the seeker, the commander, we all knew what could happen to you within the Fade. We all know that magic can manifest when one is sleeping. We didn’t ward your cabin, none of us thought to, and that is on our shoulders. It is we who owe you. I realize last night, that your talent makes us overlook much with your reeducation. The error will not occur again.”  Solas’ voice holds emotion she doesn’t put words to, mostly because it will spiral them both a circle of guilt.

Quiet falls over them, a companionable sort of silence, as they polish off their respective rolls. Her head tilts toward the coffee, eyes on Solas. “Is that yours?”

“No, Flissa sent it for you. She’d mentioned you were after it.”

Her ears burn and her cheeks feel like they’re on fire. Her face settles into her hands a she sighs loudly. The whole town new then. Everyone in the Inquisition probably knew. They’d likely smelled the smoke or seen the flames. “They all know, don’t they?”

Solas chuckles softly, but not unkindly, reaching forward to tap at her hands gently. When she finally takes them away from her face, he is holding the mug out to her, sympathy in his eyes. Not pity, but a quiet understanding. “I am afraid so, little one.”

Her face scrunches in displeasure at the name, but her hands take the cup. She lets it rest against her lips, drawing in the sent and sighing with pleasure. Jayla notes she’s been doing that quiet often of late, sighing. She’d have to be more aware of herself, or someone was liable to start asking questions. Questions she isn’t able to answer for them at present, or likely wouldn’t be able to. For reasons. Good ones. Important ones. The coffee is set aside after a sip. It was – strong, good. Mm.

“Please don’t call me that. I know I’m shorter than you are, but that is just rude.” She grabs a bowl of the customary oatmeal blinking in surprise to see fruit covering the top of it. That was a change. A good change. This she eats carefully. Mostly because Jayla never liked eating breakfast. Here it was expected, demanded. Also, it was fucking cold and the food made her feel less cold. The ridiculously thick light armor she got to wear also helped, but right now she’s in – _fuck_.

“Solas I have no clothes.”

He swallows, and coughs around the rather large bit of bread he’d half chewed. Void, she was right. No one had gotten any of her things. It wasn’t as if he could send a runner for them. They’d be pawing through all of her personal belongings and he doubts Jayla would want that. So, option two. “You may wear my spare tunic, we’ll see if the breeches will fit you, though, I doubt it. Your hips are a touch, larger than mine are.” His ears go pink as instant regret sets in. He should not have noted that her hips were large, or that he’d noticed.

“Thank you.” Her answer is soft, putting her oatmeal in her lap, while she grabs for her coffee. This wasn’t going to look even worse than it already did or anything. Someone would make a stupid comment. It never failed, she didn’t care if this wasn’t earth. It’d happen. Jayla’d bet on it. A long drink of the coffee helps. For a moment, at least. She sucks down half the cup before she feels less worried about things. Then she can set aside the cup and take up the oatmeal again.

She wants to not eat it, but they couldn’t afford to waste food. So, she forces it down. It sits like lead in her stomach. When she finishes it, she puts the bowl aside and finishes the coffee. Solas is just as silent as she is. He is, reluctant, to let Jayla wear his clothes. It was silly, to be so reserved over clothing. But he knows the mores of this place. Him keeping her safe within his home was kind, letting her have his bed is kind. Letting her have his clothes is… There are lines not to be crossed. His clothes on her will make people, think – unsavory things about her. Bad enough they may fear her for the episode last night. Still, Solas won’t make Jayla brave the cold in her night clothes. He notes the way she eats; how reluctant every movement of her spoon is.

His bowl is set aside when hers is, standing as she takes back up the cup of rancid brew to gather his extra clothing for her. It’s set in a pile on his bed and he takes the rest of the sweet rolls, and his milk, to the desk, sitting so his back is to her. Jayla takes it as the cue it is, and shoves herself into his clothes. It smells like him, like his bed. She just barely avoids shoving herself into them. The leggings – breeches – they are fucking _tight_ it’s like Solas has no ass. Well, he’d said hips, so no hips. But still, she probably looks huge. The shirt stretches a bit tight across the chest, but loose in the shoulders.

“Thank you, Solas.” He looks up to see her going for the door.

“Herald, Jayla. Stop.” She pauses, back rigid. “Yes?”

“You’ve no shoes.” He chuckles as she groans and lets her head rest against the door. “Shall I carry you? Make the illusion complete?” Jayla makes a noise that can only be described as annoyed and resigned. Twisting the girl holds out her arms, sighing, heavily. If there was going to be talk, she better make damn sure it’s good talk. Solas, hoists her onto his back, and heads for the Singing Maiden so she can have a bath. Jayla sends him for her clothes. He resists looking for a journal within her things – just barely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> banal'ras - shadow


	5. Tell the Truth to Shame the Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cleaned up previous chapters of a few glaring mistakes.  
> Happy Lunar New Year, m'loves!

There isn’t as much commotion over Solas giving her a piggyback ride as there is over the state of her cabin.  It’s a damned miracle that her trunk of clothing and books hadn’t gone up with the rest of it, or her bed. Those are the only salvageable things in the place. It’s a blackened hull, a sore thumb beside Haven’s gate. Jayla wants to hang her head and not look at anyone, but that would just make it worse. She treated this like she would any bully – if she didn’t let them get to her, they wouldn’t be interested in trying to hurt her. So, her head is held high, and her shoulders stay back as she heads for the training yard, even though she’s sore today. The bath had done wonders, loosening muscles that were protesting being used, and she’d lingered in the water too long. She wasn’t on time, but Leliana’s people are there. She no more than steps into the ring, and the day’s lesson begins.

Her rogues had to this point focused on her form, on her awareness of movement. It had made the lessons easy for Jayla. She knew to economize her movements, though her teaching prior to coming to haven had been focused on economy of movement to maximize grace. There was strength in her, but it hadn’t ever been turned to violence. Jayla doesn’t want to fight anyone, she doesn’t want to take life, but after that trek up the mountain – she’s not stupid enough to think she’d survive if she didn’t learn.

This, at least, has its own elegance. A dance, though far more deadly. The Herald took to it with an ease she didn’t admit to. Dodging, hiding, choosing her moment to strike? So, like choreographing a dance. Choose when to awe the crowd, hide and avoid telegraphing your movements. Leliana’s people had high hopes for their trainee. If only she weren’t so hesitant with blades.

Mughen, her hand to hand trainer was baffled by it. Jayla met him head on every time they sparred. She was still sloppy, too sloppy to not come back from her first mission without scars, but she wasn’t hesitant. Light on her feet, with movements that fluid – she had promise. They traded blows and took to the dirt without so much as blinking. That girl used every trick he’d ever so much as mentioned to her. Dust in the face, shrouding, feigning defeat. She’d be an excellent rogue, always acting as if she didn’t have magic during the spars.

Until blades came into play. Her attitude switched, she dodged more, attacked less and without the ferocity that came behind her fists. It was both good and bad. She hadn’t accumulated the customary scars most rogues did, on hands and arms, from dull practice blades. Yet, on the opposite side of things, she was far sloppier in her movements. They couldn’t figure out a way to make all the information mold together for her, and her improvements were slow.

Talen, the blades instructor walked away from the lessons more frustrated each day. Jayla had the speed, she had the grace, but there was that damnable unwillingness to wield the blades effectively. She ranted in their camp that the Herald would get herself killed if she didn’t hurry up and realize war meant death. Today is no different, but Talen strikes Jayla more and more often. A rip forms on Jayla’s side, caught once again by a blunted dagger. The huff she lets out alerts the other rogue, and he watches them closely.

It’s a dangerous game, what Talen plays, forcing Jayla to speed up to match or deflect blows. He knows, logically, what the small dwarven woman is doing, but his mouth has thinned all the same. The herald goes down in the dirt half a dozen times, each with the barked ‘dead’ following her. He sees the way the girl struggles, the way she becomes frenzied, worried. What he doesn’t expect is for her to wrap herself into nothingness on the final bought and _strike_. Pommels down, but still, it would have been a good killing attack had Talen not been who she was and they had not only been training. Their sparring becomes vicious after that, he watches the way they circle, lunge, twist, and attack. It ends with Jayla still in the dirt, a cut on her face and likely bruised to the void and back, but Talen has an air of satisfaction about her. Enough that she offers a hand to Jayla.

“We’ll make sure you don’t die yet, Herald,” the words are rough, and make the dark human’s eyes blow wide. Seconds later her mouth is thinning, tipped at the corners, and walking away. It is noon bell, and she has more to do than roll in the dirt with them.

********

Jayla is walking gingerly. Her sides hurt, her ass hurts, everything hurts. She’d been caught one too many times with a dagger pommel for her tastes, and gotten beaten into the ground far too often. It was as if she were starting over. It annoys her, but doesn’t stop her from sitting in her usual corner of the tavern. Talen had been – ruthless. It had honestly, put shocks of terror through her. A revelation that, apparently, kicked her fight or flight into gear? Jayla can’t explain it – one moment she was defending and the next she was looking for opportunities. It had been the same with that spar between her and Solas. The young woman knows she shouldn’t have brought her blades into it, dull as they are, yet she had. She’d used them too. She’d just – done it. It went against what she wanted, but at the same time…

Her head shakes, banishing the thoughts. They would still be there after the rest of the lessons; they could be analyzed then. She sips at broth, specifically requested, while leaning against the wall. Her eyes wander around the second floor of the tavern, interested in learning more about the people here. The dark woman hadn’t been much of a people watcher on earth, but it served a better purpose here. There was a lot to learn, after all.

“May I sit with you?” Solas. She lifts her eyes to his blue ones, nodding in a moment. He takes a seat, a plate in his hand. His meal is as meager as hers is. It looks to be just some fruit, a piece of bread and some sort of spread? Jayla isn’t going to ask. The man had strange tastes.

“How have your morning lessons gone?” The question has Jayla eyeing the elder man from the corner of her eye, as her face is turned to the room proper. There are so many ways she could answer him. She could tell him to go watch one morning, she could tell him they had gone just fine, or she could avoid it altogether.

“They could have gone much worse, I suppose.” The mug is lifted, a small sip taken. “You know. We don’t talk often.” He watches her, the look on his face can only be describe as wary, but Jayla presses on undeterred. “I’d like to know more about you, Solas.”

“Why?” His brows furrow, head tilting, it is almost adorable. Jayla is rather interested in her broth for a few breaths.

“You’re an apostate, yet you risked your freedom to help the Inquisition –“

“Not the wisest course of action, when phrase that way.” He looks almost as if he is sulking, it makes Jayla roll her eyes and continue.

“I appreciate the work you’re doing here, Solas. I just wanted to know more about you.” She doesn’t bother looking coy or fluttering her lashes, Jayla simply states her reason for questioning him. How awful was it to want to know the people you would be working with? Varric hadn’t put up this much of a fuss, nor Cassandra for that matter – though the Seeker had been a bit, brusque.

“I’m sorry. There is so much fear in the air – what would you know of me?”

“Why the fade? What made you start to study it?” She leans forward, eyes eager for this story. Solas feels a touch flattered. He is but an old man, and this girl would know him. It’s a pity he cannot tell her the full truth, but an approximation will do for now.

“I hailed from a small village to the north. There was little to interest a young man, especially one gifted with magic. But as I slept, spirits of the fade showed me glimpses of wonders I had never imagined. I treasured my dreams, being awake, out of the fade, became troublesome.”

His answer has Jayla’s mind working overtime. A village to the north? How north exactly? Across the sea in the Free Marches, or in Tevinter? He makes no mention of fearing Templars, as other mages have when she’s spoken to them. It’s curious. Makes her brows furrow as she regards him.

“Did they try to tempt you, the spirits?” She’s so eager to know what a mage who never studied in a circle would say. Her trainers all hemmed and hawed over the answer, most saying they saw no spirits and only demons. It stood to reason, they were somehow wrong in their explorations. Certainly, it had to be easier to find the good rather than the bad, especially in a world of dreams.

“No more than a piece of brightly colored fruit is tempting you to eat it. I learned how to defend myself against more aggressive spirits, and how to interact safely with the rest. I learned how to control my dreams with full consciousness. There was so much I wanted to explore.” He looks serene as he speaks, nostalgic for a time full of wonder. Jayla can’t blame him. She would give anything to be a little girl again, bugging her mother for more cuddles or for her to practice her dancing with. It was a simpler time, a far more peaceful time in her life.

But again, his answer has left her with more questions. How did he learn to differentiate aggressive spirits with placid ones, how did he learn how to drive one spirit away while attracting another? Who within the fade could help him to learn how to control his dreams. She doesn’t believe that Solas simply picked it up like a card trick. It had to take years of very careful practice. So many questions! Damn that she doesn’t have more time to ask him all of them.

“I gather that you didn’t spend your entire life dreaming.” The statement is soft, equal parts amused and curious. Solas doesn’t scowl at her, but he does pop a few pieces of fruit in his mouth. It reminds her to drink some more broth.

“No, eventually I was unable to find new areas in the Fade,” he must choose his words carefully now, mind whirling with what he could say and what would raise suspicion. Jayla is a smart woman, and very curious. He can tell already there will be many more talks of his adventures within the dreaming world.

“What, why?”

“Two reasons,” he smirks just a touch, “first, the Fade reflects the world around it, unless I travelled, I would never find anything new. Second, the Fade reflects and is limited by our imaginations, to find interesting areas, one must be interesting.”

“Is that why you joined the Inquisition?” That wasn’t the question she wanted to ask. It was just the question that got blurted out.

“No. I joined the Inquisition because we were – are – all in terrible danger. If our enemies destroyed the world, I would have nowhere to lay my head while dreaming in the fade.” She lets out a heavy breath, chuckling when it’s clear Solas is not going to berate her for that question. She takes a gulp of rapidly cooling broth, and he partakes of his strange little meal.

“I wish you luck, for what it’s worth.” Solas is genuinely surprised by that reaction. Most would tell him he was a fool, that he would one day end up possessed. If only they knew he was already bound to a spirit and such a thing was highly unlikely.

“Thank you. In truth, I’ve enjoyed experiencing more of life to experience more of the fade.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“You train your will to control magic and withstand possession. Your indomitable focus is an enjoyable side benefit.” He answers her with care, and even after her episode the night prior, Solas finds his words all ring true in his head. Jayla had a focus he’s rarely seen before, and before her in this age, never within the shem’len. “You have chosen a path whose steps you do not dislike because it leads to a destination you enjoy, as have I.”

Silence rings and Solas notes those wide eyes of hers. Of her person, he likes Jayla’s eyes best. They were revealing. He is sure, that in time, those eyes will let him know exactly what she is feeling at any given moment, and perhaps at some point he might be able to anticipate her thoughts. For now, she seems surprised he would praise her so. It is not long before there is a spark in the depths of those fathomless eyes.

“ _Indomitable_ focus?” Those lips, which any man would be hard pressed to ignore, tilt a touch. Just enough for Solas to be slightly distracted and answer without thinking.

“Presumably, I have yet to see it dominated. I imagine that the sight would be – fascinating.” His voice has dropped, not by his will, and those words sit between them. The human looks like she’s been electrocuted. It shouldn’t please him like it does.

Holy shit. Ho-leee shit. Jayla swallows hard, and does not focus on the fact Solas said that while staring at her mouth. She won’t. No way, no how. She won’t think about the fact he brought her breakfast, that he took care of her the night before, that he let her sleep in his bed rather than dump her in the medical tent. She’s not going to think about any single one of those damn things. Because this? This flirting? Not happening.

“Well, I should – I have, lessons. With Josie. Something about the noble houses of Orlais, or was it Rivain today. I can’t remember. I’ll – I’ll see you at dinner.” Solas jolts when Jayla blinks out of existence. He feels the warp in the fade, and knows she has used the ability she displayed yesterday. So, curious. Perhaps he would get her to show him exactly how she did that one of these days. It seemed far more effective than a Fade step.

********

“Ambassador, I was. I was thinking about my predicament.” Jayla is curled in the only other chair within Josephine’s office. Maeve has gone to see Adan, and it’s the perfect opportunity to broach several sensitive topics.

“oh?” The other woman turns slightly in her chair, dark eyes pinning Jayla in place.

“Yes. I think Varric and Solas should know, about me. About where I’m from before we go to the Hinterlands. Speaking of the Hinterlands, I want to leave next week. I’ll take a few books, but I don’t think we should wait for me to be completely battle ready. People need our help now. I can’t deal with the thought people might die if we don’t get out there now.”  Her hands fiddle with the book pages, a nervous habit. If the woman had jewelry on, she’d be playing with that instead.

“Do you think it pertinent they know you are an otherworlder, Herald?”

“Yes. I don’t know that they will trust me more, but they certainly won’t trust me less. I mean, I don’t like keeping secrets from people I’m supposed to rely on as support. It’s wrong. I don’t want them to think I can do more than I really can.”

“This is about the fire.”

“Partly,” her place is marked and she clenches her hands, eyes darting away from Josephine’s a moment. “My magic, it’s shaped by what I know from my world, and every mage here thinks it’s wrong. I can’t learn their techniques because they all assume I already have the basis for it. They don’t bother to go back to the very beginning of things for me. I can’t work like that. If at least Solas knew, he could help me to build that base and I could fit in a little more. Varric – well, that cover is thin, I think he’s just waiting for me to slip up.”

Josephine taps the decorative plume of her quill against her lips. There are pros and cons to the Herald revealing herself. Varric and Solas were two of her people, the ones that would be closest to her. Cassandra already knew. Perhaps it would foster a stronger bond of trust. As the Inquisition grew, as the Breach loomed over them, needing to be closed, she would need people to help her. People she could trust. But, it could not get out that the Herald was from an entirely different world. This needed to be done delicately, orchestrated so no ears but the most trusted would over hear it.

“I think, perhaps, you should take refuge with one of the other mages, until your cabin can be repaired. You will need the protections they know, to keep you from being overtaken by your dreams. I will however, inquire Ser Solas and Ser Tethras if they would mind joining you for dinner here, in the chantry. There is a study, in the bowels of the chantry, it would suit, and we could be sure of who was down there during the …. revelation. Guards would be removed, and I would have Leliana, Cullen and Cassandra guard the exits.” Josie speaks carefully, weighing each word as it comes out of her mouth. Jayla blinks. Take refuge with another mage? Her mind immediately veers into dangerous waters, and she launches herself right back out of them. Attractive males are off limits. All of them. This was not the time to be chasing hormone addled desires. She had work to do, especially if she wanted to go home. If she could.

“That seems, excessive.” Her words are quiet, curious. It’s something the Ambassador immediately picks up on. There is a flash of a dark, secretive smile on the Antivan’s lips, so fast Jayla isn’t sure it was ever there.

“I promise you, Herald, it is not. I will arrange it for the sixth bell. I am sure Flissa will be accommodating and provide the refreshment needed.” That gets Jayla’s ears perked, reminding her of a few other requests she needed to make.

“Speaking of that, Josephine…”

********

The sixth bell comes far too fast for Jayla’s liking, she’s nervous, already in the study, eyeing the two chairs that had been brought down. She is curled in the largest, not to give off some air of superiority, just because it was comfortable and she got here first damn it. Not to mention, it was her who was going to be under some serious scrutiny soon.

Her legs are folded in front of her, arms wrapped around them, lips pressed to her left knee, dark eyes trained on the door. Even though this had been her idea, Jayla was nervous. She didn’t know Solas, nor Varric well enough to anticipate a reaction. She’s always hated not being able to read people, situations – the ability had saved her from disasters and discomfort more than a few times in her life. Her right foot begins to bounce, and she jerks as Flissa comes in, setting a tray down with a short curtsey before heading back out. Not five seconds later, Solas appears, Varric coming right after him.

“Jayla. We received your invitation. It’s…. unusual.” Solas is the one to speak, because of course he is, the man wields dignity like a shield.

“You’re not going to throw us in cells, are you? I mean, this would be a first for me, getting fed and then tossed into a dank hole with no way out.” The storyteller makes Jayla laugh, getting her to unfold herself from the protective fold she’d made herself into.

“No. I’m not. That isn’t.” Stumbling, laughter still in her voice, nervous laughter, she sighs, setting her forehead against the heel of her hand for a moment. “This is about me, and you don’t need to worry. There aren’t any cells to be had, for either of you. Sit down, and grab some food.”

Her hands are shaking as they reach for a bowl, the thick slice of bread teetering until she grabs it and shoves it in her mouth. It’s something neither man misses, as they take their own portions. Sharp eyes watch as the dark woman methodically eats for a few moments, the way she avoids their eyes. It’s as if the Herald is reluctant to get to what she wants to say. Clearly, she’s nervous, Solas can’t figure out why. It startles neither of them when she sighs heavily, placing the bowl on the desk nearby.

“Fuck. Okay, this is – let me preface by saying the leaders of the Inquisition already know this. Cassandra already knows too.” Her hands twist together, the tremor slight, but there. She twists her fingers together, play as if she were accustomed to having rings on her middle finger and thumb.

“Listen, kid –“

“Nope. You gotta just let me get this out, Varric. I’m nervous as hell, and you two need to know. I can’t expect you to trust me if you don’t know. I’m not from Rivain.”  It’s said in a rush and Solas finds himself straightening up, interest in his eyes. She looked as if she could be from Rivain, her hair, her coloring, the only thing lacking was accent.

“Could have told you that, Jay. So, what is it. Are you a runaway slave? Runaway princess from the Anderfels? Runaway Qunari? An abused noble woman? Best to just get it out. Whatever it is we can help.” All the possibilities seem outlandish to the elven man. Jayla gives little indication she could be nobility, and she does not shrink as a slave would. Solas could, perhaps, see the princess angle, there was a certain grace to Jayla, a very practiced pattern of how she held herself, presented herself to others.

“I’m not from Thedas. At all.” That small admission, it is said carefully, quietly. Solas’ brows draw together. Not from Thedas? Then where? He opens his mouth, intending to ask her what she meant when the girl just barrels ahead.

“I lived in this place called New York- before you ask, I was born in Honolulu. I was an aspiring ballerina, but I was normal. No magic, there’s no magic at all where I’m from, just science. And to you two, I’m betting science could be magic. But, I just. I was there, in the studio where I practiced after classes, before work, I was done with my fundamentals. So, I turned the music selection, went to practice for my… other job, and suddenly I’m falling into the Fade. I guess, I don’t know what the Fade looks like, but it was dark, green, nothing made sense and nothing felt right. I was just, stumbling along, confused, and … I fell.” Her eyes drop to the floor, her hands move to tug and pull at her tunic. This was what the others did _not_ know.

“I wasn’t alone. There was a body, she – she was an elf, but not moving. I was so scared, I went to check her pulse, it felt like I’d been electrocuted, or maybe stabbed. I think, the magic in my hand? I think it was in her first.” She turns the palm toward her face, melancholy settling on her like a heavy cloak. “I passed out, I don’t know for how long. I woke up to this golden light, I figured – someone y it would know where I was. There was a hill, and when I hit the bottom I realized the light was a woman – or a spirit, now I guess. I went up, and then these, god, they were horrific, these things started to chase me. The spirit woman reached for me, I nearly missed her hand, and then I was falling out of the Fade.” Solas sits so still, Jayla isn’t sure he’s breathing when she takes a glance at her companions. Varric is – his expression is closed off. She can’t get a read on either of them. It just makes the girl shrink back into the chair, legs pulling up to act as a barrier against them.

********

“How old are you,” he croaks out the words, fingers gripping his bowl to the point his knuckles are turning white. The question clearly startles the human, her eyes blinking, brows furrowing in question. Her answer is hesitant, and almost whispered – “twenty-two.”

Solas almost drops his bowl, and Varric curses a blue streak. He has to put the food on the ground, now it’s his turn to shake. Hand press to his hands, rubbing slowly. A child. She’s six years into her adulthood. Six. That was it. That was all the world experience she had without aide of her parents, if her world was anything like this one. Perhaps less. Classes she’d said, she was still learning, an apprentice perhaps? Solas’ stomach rolls, a child. She had been pulled here, by his mistake. His magic had sought her out, and he is sure now, that this will kill her. No magic before she’d come here. The other woman already dead. Spirits take him.

“I- It’s not all bad. I could be dead. I could have said a lot of worse things.” That voice, usually so strong, and filled with a low burning anger, is timid. Scared, and he knows it is because of their reaction. His face comes out of his hands, and Solas sighs.

“Da’len, death would be a mercy, compared to being torn from all you know and thrown into a world you have to fight to survive as you were.” He sounds tried to his own ears, and he feels it. Twenty-two name days, that was it. A girl, a child, he’d sentenced her to death. Even now he can feel his magic, it curls just a little farther into her every day. Absently, distantly, he hears her silence for what it is – agreement. She’s been torn from her life and world. He can’t know it was better than here, he doesn’t quite know what a ballerina is, but it was not a combat roll. That is apparent. That sick rolling feeling won’t stop.

“I didn’t want to lie about it. We’re leaving for the Hinterlands in a week and –“

“You cannot go into a warzone.” Their voices mingle, his and Varric’s, the force of the words making Jayla jerk in surprise. The thought horrifies them both. Make her fight? They’d be dragging back a corpse. War or no war, she wasn’t ready for this.

“I have to!” The fire in her roars to the surface. “If I don’t – what will happen? The chantry will continue to tell people we’re heretics or terrorists, and no one will help us! That big ass hole in the sky? We have to fix it. Fix it and send me home. That’s the deal I made. That’s what I’m going to do.”

He has to get out of here. Away from her, away from the child he is going to use and kill for the sake of a world he is going to tear to the ground. Solas feels no better than what he’d thought of his fellows. He was no better than his forgotten brothers and locked away cousins. He bolts, leaving the Chantry with measured steps. It would cost him, this exit, but he’ll deal with it. For now, he has to go make peace with what must be done.


	6. Deals with Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, Jayla's favorite word is fuck, apparently. There's a lot happening all at once, nothing makes sense, and Jayla does really stupid things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Cullen. I love him. But for him to go from Kirkwall into Inquisition without some serious hang ups? More than portrayed in the game - is ludacris. So. Cullen has baggage, he'll stop being an ass, eventually.

Solas takes himself out past the Druffalo to sit in the snow and deal with the chaos that Jayla’s news brought. He had no idea that she was so young. It makes him want to retch, the way he’s noticed her. Disgust tastes acidic on his tongue. In the next moment, the man is berating himself yet again for the mistake of giving that orb to Corypheus. That tear in the veil, it's affected other worlds. Another world.

It’s a notion that the scholars of his time had tried to explore, with the use of Eluvians, more spells than a single person could count within a life time. Nothing had proven there was a world beyond their own. Now, there is living, breathing, proof of it being true. Part of Solas wants nothing more than to go and sit with Jayla, to get her to speak of her world. The other part is terrified to learn just how innocent the woman is. He doesn’t want to know what the world she came from was like, how it treated her, formed her to the woman she is right now.

“Spirits forgive me.” The words are murmured into chilled air, where no one will hear them. His hands settle on his temples, massage away the headache forming. He pushes aside his guilt, the horror of Jayla’s origins. There is nothing he can do now. What is done, is done. There is no magic that he’s ever seen, learned, or knew of that would send the girl back. She was of Thedas now – and she is a tool.

Reluctance has him staring blankly at the hill that rises not fifty feet from him. A tool, a means to an end, was he truly so ruthless now? His head shakes, breath heavy. He had to be, to do what must be done. He had to be. Solas and Action turn their intellect toward how to make up for their abrupt departure, how to ready the Herald and make her as strong as she needed to be to wield the mark and correct the mistake. Likely, it will take some work, now that he has effectively run from her.

She’d come to him for help, to learn control. He would teach her, and he would worm his way back into her good graces. If only he could put her age from his mind.

 

********

“Princess, are you okay?” Varric was – shocked, that Solas had taken off the way he had. Was, and wasn’t at the same time. Shocked to see a man steadfast in the belief they had to do anything and everything they could to close the rifts, the Breach, but ran from the girl who was supposed to do it. He wasn’t shocked, because he’d seen the way they looked at one another. He saw how Jayla ran like her ass was on fire every single time she realized they were flirting. So he understands Solas, who looks to be at least old enough to have been her age when she was born, running. The reticent man was likely having a panic attack.

“I – guess?” Jayla shrugs, her head on her knees. That hadn’t gone as she wanted it to. Solas had looked horrified when she said her age. He’d looked almost accepting about her not being Thedosian. But her age had him saying she couldn’t fight? She wants to pull at her hair and groans. “Cassandra is going to murder me.”

Varric’s brows jump up, leaving his chair in the same moment to wander to Jayla, laying a hand cautiously on her shoulder. “I doubt she’ll murder you. You said she knew.”

“If you two are a gauge, I am apparently too young for this.” Bitterness lays on every word. Jayla honestly agrees. She’s no battle-hardened warrior, she’s at best, a novice who got very lucky three weeks past. Not even three weeks past, last night. Her magi tutors had heard she’s endured her first smite and told her to go straight to Josephine. No lessons for two days, and that was if they deemed her aura to be healed enough. Apparently, her body had healed, but her magic wasn’t? Jayla had no idea how that worked. She felt fine? A little headache-y, and there were some pains in her chest like she was having an anxiety attack but fine.  Solas likely wouldn’t help her now, he’d probably coddle her, or lobby she be kept far away from battle until things had been dealt with by _real_ soldiers. Her nails dig into the soft leather of her leggings.

“You didn’t tell them?” Varric sighs, closing his eyes. Cassandra likely wouldn’t be their problem, that girl had been busy becoming a Seeker at a similar age, and Leliana had been dealing with the blight. Cullen, there was the problem, as if Firebug didn’t have enough already. Twenty-two, wild magic, and a man who didn’t trust as far as he could throw. For all that Curly had made progress, fear was still there. He still had to deal with it. This was a mess. “You know, Firebug, I couldn’t make this shit up. You’ve got a hell of a story and this part? It’s going to be a best seller.”

The joke, thankfully, lands with Jayla, and she snorts, shoulders shaking with her laughter. Her laughter goes on longer than she realizes, however, and veers into hysterical. It was inevitable, really. Jayla could deal with a lot. She has dealt with a lot, but right now, she’s at a loss. Her thoughts are everywhere, she was too nervous, _still_. When her laughter calms enough, Varric hauls her from her chair.

“Okay kid. Let’s get some ale in you, clearly tonight you need it.”

“Thanks, Varric.”

“No problem, kid. No problem.”

********

Jayla was under Templar watch for the night. They stand outside her door, the charred remains of her cabin, and she sits on her bed, terrified. Josephine hadn’t been able to find a single person who would consent to having Jayla bunk for the night. Not a single person. There had to be at least five hundred people in this fucking ink splot of a town. Her hands tug at her hair, and her eyes stay on the door. They’d kill her if she caused another fire. Or do that thing, that everyone whispered about, that Maeve said she’d kept safe, Tranquil. Jayla doesn’t have a great grasp of it, but it sounded like a lobotomy. Magical, but just as destroying. She won’t let it happen to her. Or anyone here.

Even if they’re all bastard cowards.

How many mages are already here? Did they think she was going to slit their throats in their sleep and run naked into the wilderness? It’s ridiculous. The young woman wishes Solas were around. Varric, he’d offered, but he was rooming in the Singing Maiden. Flissa had been kind, but made it clear there weren’t wards up for her protection. So, she was here. Shivering because she wouldn’t let anyone make a fire in the hearth.  

She’s curled at the head of her bed, wrapped in every blanket, her eyes locked on the door. Living in New York – it was nothing compared to this. At least there, Jayla could ignore the possibility of death. She could live her life and let the dice simply roll, like everyone else in the world did. Not here. Here everyone with magic needs to have a strangle hold on the dice. They had to have back up plans for their back up plans and it’s nothing like she’s ever experienced.

The worst part is, she knows she’s got to suck it up, move past it – prove all of these people wrong. She wasn’t going to kill anyone – save the people she is aimed at – she wasn’t going to fail. Can’t fail, because if this world ends, that means she’s dead, and if she’s dead, she’s not going home.  Her mind swirls and her chest tightens, her eyes close and she takes deep breaths. She falls asleep before the tightness releases.

 

********

She’s fallen into the Forest again. Solas feels her the moment the Fade accepts her sleeping mind. Her mark, his magic, it sings here. He couldn’t ignore her if he tried. That sick feeling still haunts him, enough that for a long moment, Solas debates whether he should find her, round her up before she dives deeper into memories and dreams of those who were dangerous still. A long moment, but Action is already at his side, the wolf formed spirit shoving at him.

It’s rare, given how long they’ve been tied, for Action to manifest independent of Solas. The old elf does not want to begin to even guess as to why the spirit decides to do so now. Instead, he hauls himself up from where he laid, trekking into the woods to find the girl. The walk isn’t long, not even with Action dogging his steps. The scene he comes on – it’s quite interesting.

“Excuse me,” Jayla’s voice is so soft, deep but warm and inviting, she’s looking around the trees, eyes bright and alert. “Hello? Doesn’t anyone want to talk to me?”

Alarm fills Solas – he feels the spirits that turn to her at the invitation. He’d like to rush forward, to berate the girl for playing with things she didn’t know the workings off. Action stops him. The spirit wolf moves forward, making noise as he strides farther from Solas, darting between trees. Jayla, predictably, twists toward where her ears perceive the sound to be coming from.

The ancient watches as Action breaks the tree line across from the dark woman. Her hands do not clap over her mouth as they had the night previous, but she does stand very, very, still. Still enough that the six-eyed wolf moves farther into her little clearing. The other spirits here are watching with Solas, he can feel their presence, just beyond what Jayla would likely be able to feel.

“You saved me.” Whisper soft words again fill the air. Shock bolts through Solas, watching her lift an arm, stretching her hand out toward a part of his spirit. No one in their right mind would offer their hand to him, nor Action, not in that form. Yet, here was a quickling of a woman, encouraging the spirit closer. A massive paw snaps twigs as it reduces the distance between its muzzle and that hand. Formed as it is, when her hand touches Action, it does not touch fur, nor anything solid. Not solid as Jayla knows it. Solas feels it like her hand is stroking his cheek. He can’t shake the feeling either.

“Thank you. I don’t know if you can talk, or if you really understand, my – well a person I work with, sort of, he told me you can talk to spirits. You’re a spirit, right? You don’t seem mean or out for blood. I wonder what you’re supposed to be. Protection? Are you Valor, or maybe Bravery?” As she speaks, those eyes close as her other hand joins the first, this time petting at his – their – neck.

“You’re important, da’len.” Action’s voice practically bowls her over. It vibrates through her, echoes around them. Her hands grip at fur that isn’t fur and Solas shakes his head against the sensation. “You came too far into the dream, da’halla. You need to be taught to stay safe. Like the lessons, you take with the Shem’len and Durgen’len.” The young woman finds her footing, her equilibrium the longer the wolf spirit speaks to her. “I am Action, and I can teach you.”

Alarm once again, fills Solas, and the spirits all shift behind them. He immediately attempts to reign his spirit in. This was inappropriate, deals can’t not be made with her. They will teach her but not here, not when she doesn’t know or understand! The Wolf doesn’t move, even as he is called. The eyes only open and slide to where Solas stands hidden by the massive trees.

“You will?” Her voice is full of hope and Solas despairs. _Jayla no_. It whispers through his mind, even as Action preens, a grin showing its teeth forming on its face.

“Yes – for a very small price.”

 _Action!_ Solas’ mind screams it across the divide, he even starts to move forward. They would not make a _deal_ with the Herald. She cannot be bound to them! Did the wolf not understand? This, this would end poorly.

“What sort of price?”  Her hands go back to petting the beast before her, just a touch of fear in her scent. Action shoves its nose against her throat, and Solas is assaulted with her. Fear, interest, cloying sweet spice that he cannot name. It stops him in his tracks – exactly as Action had planned, hoped for.

“When I call for your help, you will give it. A favor for a favor.” Those hands pause, he can feel her pulse against his nose. It’s kicked up in speed. Thank all the spirits of the fade. It seems the young otherworlder has some sense after all.

“I won’t agree to such vague terms.” She’s listened, thank the Maker, should such a being exist. The Circle mages might be useless, but at least they have taught her something important. Action snorts, laughter filling Solas’ mind. _Smart for a da’halla – not willing to become prey. Keep her close, Falon._

“Then we will bargain. I will teach you to dream, you will –“  the wolf tilts its head, thinks of its words carefully.  It had to be the right wording, the right exchange. “You will come to the final battle I fight, in the moment I call, and you will lend me your aide.”

Solas dashes forward, careful of where he steps. His heart is in his throat. Action means no harm, but this is madness. They do not make bargains like this anymore. To bind the Herald in such a thing. He needs to stop it.  He rounds a tree to see Jayla considering the offer.  She won’t. She isn’t stupid enough to –

“I accept.” Action howls his triumph and Solas forces himself awake as the bands of the bargain slide around his soul.

********

Solas sits upright in his bed. There is no easy wake up from that, no gentle way to force oneself from the Fade. He is – incensed. Action acted without consulting him, something that hasn’t happened since he matured enough to see the Evanuris for what they were. But tonight, he did. The damned wolf wrapped her in a bargain that wouldn’t be fulfilled for years! The final battle, whatever it may be, would not come until after the Veil fell, and the ‘pantheons’ woke.

He shoves himself out of the bed, raging internally at his other half – who is still dormant within his mind. It meant that Action was with Jayla still. That girl, that child, she didn’t know what she was doing! She didn’t know what she played at. And now she was tied to an immortal being by way of a spirit. His arms shove into a tunic, and his head follows moments later. An ear bends in an uncomfortable way but he pays it no mind. His pendant makes a lump underneath while Solas bursts from his cabin.

All he has to do to find Jayla was look for her aura, his magic that was laced through it. He is surprised that she is still by the gates of Haven. More so when he finds himself lead by her aura to the burnt cabin that had been, and apparently still was, hers. But what makes him feel rage – is the Templars. This cannot be Josephine’s doing. The Ambassador has more tact, far more tact than this. He could see Cassandra or the Commander doing this, but it had been reported the Ambassador was sending runners all over the town and camp. It is apparent no one will trust the Herald in their home. Bastards.

Striding forward, neither Templar makes to stop him, even as the man nearly kicks in the door to her cabin. He imagines they have no idea what will have upset him so much to do this. He doesn’t care if they imagine anything to make sense of the scenario. That fire in him grows when he sees her. She’s curled herself in blankets, only her face and some hair sticking out, and shoved herself tight against the back of the bed. It looks like she was watching the door. Those fools. Those utterly useless fools.

Solas doesn’t have a plan, he hadn’t when he came from his home to hers. Now he simply moves, gathering the woman and her blankets into his arms and leaving the cabin without a single word. Jayla doesn’t stir, her mind is too deep in the fade, once again, to be disturbed by him. Action is likely facilitating this, the arrogant mutt. The sound of armor shifting, clanking behind him does not make Solas’ steps falter. He simply continues forward, taking the Herald to his cabin. There, at least, when she wakes, he can scream at her and no one will be the wiser. There, if Action cannot keep nightmares from grasping her, he can keep her from the Templars notice. His wards will not break, and she will not burn his house down.

The door is slammed in the Templars faces. He feels them taking up guard outside his door. It makes him bare his teeth and snarl.

********

Sunlight greets the Herald as she slowly wakes. Her dreams had been – eventful to say the least. The great spirit – Action he had said – had taught her as promised. Or began to, there was so much information to absorb. They’d sat it the forest all night, simply going over what the Fade is. It was an explanation that would take a few nights if the last had been any indication.

Her mind turns to the sensations and scents around her. She is warm, far too warm, and that wonderful spicy scent surrounds her. It’s strong today, very strong. Her nose scrunches, eyes squeezing before opening carefully against the bright light of morning. The caution flies out the window as her resting place clicks in her head. This cabin is not hers, it’s Solas’. Has to be, no one else would take her from her cabin – would they? Cullen sleeps in the Chantry, and if he takes her anywhere, she’d know it. She’d be screaming. Or he’d come at her while she was sleeping, taking care of her before she could defend herself.

The man straight intimidates her. She doesn’t trust him after the incident that lead to – well, this. It would be quite a while before she didn’t feel the need to keep him in her sights every time she saw him. A damned shame, he was pretty. Pretty and dangerous.

Her hand shifts from her tangle of blankets to rub at sleep crusted eyes. It’s right around the time Jayla decides to get up, that her – Solas’ bed breathes. It’s in the next moment that Jayla squeaks in horror, flails, and smacks into the floor hard enough she has to groan. Within seconds, the bald elf is upright in his bed, or more upright. She vaguely saw him as leaning against his headboard.

She lays dazed as the elder man registers her disappearance, his head snapping too and fro before his eyes shift down, the blue pinning her to the floor. The dancer would very much like to be anywhere but here. That gaze, it’s got her pinned more effectively than any of her Momma’s evil eyes ever had. Solas was pissed. Was it over her waking him? Or her stealing his bed two nights in a row? To be fair, she had not stolen it willingly either night.

“You are a fool.” The bite in the words has her flinching, and anger surging forward in the same breath.

“What the fuck, Solas.” Her hands push her into sitting position, hair shifting along her back and shoulders. “What the hell did I do to you? I sure as hell didn’t crawl into your bed –“

“You made a deal with a spirit. I saw you do it. How could you be so foolish!” His hand waves before he finishes the first statement. She can feel – something. It sparks along her skin and settles inside the cabin heavily. Jayla desperately wants to ask him what he’s done, but also there are – well shit.

“You spied on me?” Her voice is deadly calm.

“Your mind called out to every spirit in the Fade! You _invited_ me.” Snarling, Solas is – he is impressive and terrifying.

“It was a safe deal! It’s just a spirit of –“

“Just a spirit of what, Jayla? Do you know so much of this world now you may lecture me on the nature of my field?” Tone and timber of Solas’ voice strike her. Sharp, pointed, making her heart race under her ribs.

“I’m not lecturing you! He is safe, the deal is safe and it’s clear.” A thread of steel enters her tone, and Solas stands from the bed, grabbing her with surprising force to make her stand. They are nose to nose, her eyes are wide, pupils pin pricks.

“Spirits can be twisted, da’len. You may both be entering this deal with good intentions, but it may spell your death. Why would you do such a thing? You’ve been warned!”

“You said spirits were safe!”

“Not so safe you can make a deal with one! Not that one. It was old, Jayla. It is stronger than you realize and you were treating it like an over grown dog.” He’s still snarling, and Jayla’s heart is racing. This – they are arguing, but all Jayla can focus on is how much he scares her; how much she wants to climb him like a tree.

“No one wants to teach me what I need to know!” She shrieks it, wrenching her arm from his bruising hold on her. Stumbling back a step, hitting his desk, she snarls right back at him. “The Mages all assume I know the building blocks, you know what I know – which is fuck all, and what do you do? You run! You left me with Varric! Josie couldn’t even ask if I could stay with you _because you were gone_. So, don’t fucking yell at me when this is your fault as much as it is mine!”  Her aura is flailing wildly with her emotions. Solas, determined to get her to submit somehow, smothers hers with his. He forgets the girl has had to deal with a smite, not twenty four hours past, that left her weak.

Ice washes over her, making her suck in a breath, eyes wide as the feeling of him accompanies it. It snaps her into focus, her magic suddenly coiled tight and boiling under her skin, placing her in agony. It hurts. The ice, the way her magic gathers, so much her breathing changes to short panting sips. His magic, she can almost taste it on her tongue and he won’t remove it. “You want to go to the Hinterlands, in a week. You made a deal with a spirit so deep in the Fade it’s a wonder you woke at all, and you blame me for your deficiency? How like a human child to do so!”

“Fuck you! This has nothing to do with my fucking race.” Pushing from the desk, the shorter of the two gets into Solas’ face. Or rather, encroaches wildly on his personal space. “You’re a racist bastard when you get mad, and you are to blame! You are supposed to be some wise man, with knowledge most mages don’t have. But you left me ass out in the cold! You could have approached me, at any point, in the last twenty days. This is not my fault.”

Racist. _Racist_. Solas feels his shoulders tense, lips curling in to sneer. He was racist? Her whole race looked down on his! Had pummeled his race into little more than slaves for centuries. He was at least willing to teach her. He was superior to those Circle mages! “You are a child, who plays with forces she doesn’t understand. You’re going to get yourself killed, you little idiot!”

“I am not a child!” She screams it in his face, the shrill nature of it, which one would not assume Jayla’s voice couldn’t reach, makes his ears ring, lying flat against his skull.

“You are! You fumble with your magic, you desperately devour books to keep a lie in place. You complain about a lack of education, when you could have just as easily come to me. It isn’t as if you had no idea where I was! Three weeks you shunned me, and you expect to be accepted, pulled into my good graces for suddenly taking an interest?”

“I don’t know you! You don’t know anything about me. I need to do what I do, you know that, I told you why my magic is what it is! And yes, I will fucking complain about not learning proper fucking magic from the fucking magi assigned to teach me! It’s their job to help me. Josephine pays them to teach me and all I get is lectured on how my magic is wrong and I need a staff. I need to stand like this, and cast like that. I should be serene and draw from the veil carefully so as not to over spend my mana. How does any of that help me when I don’t know how this shit actually works! Huh? You tell me, Solas. Put me in my place, educate me. Show me how much better you are than the lowly human.”

Something snaps, and Jayla is slammed against the nearest wall, hard enough her head cracks against the wood, the unwilling mage coming back dazed, that was going to sting later, in addition to the lovely new pain still being caused by his magic making hers do whatever the hell it's doing. She feels like her skin is being boiled off and frozen simultaneously, sharp hot, cold, short, prolonged feelings. It's left her jagged and desperate to lash out. Solas has a hand at the base of her throat, the other caging her in. He – Jesus. He looks feral, like he’s ready to rip her throat out or throw her on the ground.

He can feel it, when it happens, when her fear turns to shock to terror. He knows when arousal kicks from mild to more. And he is too furious to give it any thought. All Solas – Action, all they want is for her to see what she’s done what she is doing. Action, who disapproves of Solas disapproving of his deal, but not appreciating her accusations and insubordination, paces, growls, urges Solas to do what she says. The hand at the base of her throat exerts more pressure, he leans in, until her eyes have to shift between his to keep from crossing. He isn't shocked when her hands slaps against his, panic making her fight. He hasn't even cut her air off yet, simply threatened it.

“You have no idea what I would do to you, and you offer the opportunity for me to destroy you so freely. Lowly human – no – just a foolish one.” It’s like the air has been sucked from the room. Jayla doesn’t know if she should swoon or scream bloody murder for someone to get her out of this situation. Destroy her? Fuck. What the fuck.

“You won’t.” Challenge, one that has Wolf and man bristling. Why is she pushing? Does this slip of a woman have no self-preservation instinct? He presses into her with his aura, feels how hers is trapped tight against her. There is satisfaction that will make him retch with guilt later in his when she breaks from staring at him, perspiration beading at her hairline as her teeth grind, eyes squeezing shut against the pain of it. Jayla lets out a pitiful whine, the anger in the room, the tension, breaks.

“Don’t assume I am a good man, da’len.” Voice hoarse, ragged, Solas, abruptly is across the room. He is shoving himself into clothing – hell he changes his breeches in front of her, not that Jayla has the sense about her to appreciate it  - grabs his staff and stalks back toward her. She shrinks. He snarls, wrenching open the door.

“Get dressed, and get to the training yard, Jayla.” He had a week to make sure she didn’t kill herself - his other half had bound them. They would teach her and pray it was enough. The door slams behind him, and Jayla sinks to the floor, breathing rapidly as she tries to figure out just what the hell happened a moment ago - as she tries to work through her pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this universe, Solas is, very similarly to Avvar, bound to a spirit of Action, Rebellion. It can and does operate independently from Solas but they are one half each of a soul, thus they can't leave a dream the other is in. Mostly Action stays 'in' Solas or vice versa. 
> 
> There is a reason for this divide between spirit and man, it'll become clear....later. Much later. Pardon the mistakes, no beta paired with tendencies to write at the wee hours of the morning often leads to me seeing one thing while writing another.


	7. Solas, You're Sort of a Dick.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter is long.  
> Solas, predictably, continues on his streak of reacting oh so well to our lovely Jayla. Jayla continues to be herself, damn the consequences. They fight, they heal, she dances.

She’s dazed and aching as she sits on the floor beside the cabin door. Her skin feels like it will bruise if a stiff wind hits her, hot pin pricks dancing all over her body. Overheated and not at all warm enough to be so. The shift on her hurts, her head is throbbing. Jayla can’t make sense of what just happened. Too fast, too much emotion at the fore, it’s like her mind blocked the memory from being fully formed, but it’s still there. Solas had injured her, he’d been angry, furious, she’d goaded him into it.

Her hands settle on her face, and Jayla heaves a deep breath. It’s a shaky thing, heralding the appearance of tears. Her eyes sting, but, the brunette girl keeps it in. Another shaky breath is drawn and let out, another, one more, before she hauls herself off the cabin floor. Once again, Jayla’s clothing is in her cabin sheer across the town. Without remorse, she takes Solas’ – even the foot wraps he favors so damn much. She doesn’t wrap them properly, but they’re enough to get her to her own cabin. The wind, even the surprisingly soft nature of Solas’ tunic, hurts her. By the time, she’s made it past the Maiden, she can almost ignore it. If only she could ignore the Templars following not three paces behind her. It makes her face burn in shame, but it doesn’t stop her, doesn’t make her falter as she sees the civilians of the town start to leave their cabins.

Jayla closes the door on her guards, and throws Solas’ clothes onto her bed in a pile. Her own hand-me-downs are pulled on, belted, laced, and her hair twisted into a knot on the top of her head. The whole time, she thinks about what was said before things became volatile. Action was an old spirit per Solas, dangerous, apparently. The wolf saved her life, it _offered_ to do what others hadn’t yet saw fit to. The requested trade was nothing that would endanger – oh. Her hands pause as they twist her hair. She sighs heavily, eyes closing.

It wanted her to fight for it, and she had agreed without knowing who or what she was meant to fight. Her shoulders droop, even as her hands finish the knot of her hair. Solas had been right – she was stupid. The deal hadn’t been to her benefit, not in the long run. However, it can’t be taken back. She felt the way magic had settled inside her when Action howled. They were stuck with one another until whatever battle he – it – wanted fought.

“Now I’m going to have to apologise to him.” It’s sighed out loud, as she wrenches open her cabin door. The Templars are still there, because she can’t have even a moment’s privacy it would seem. They stalk behind her, watching as she rolls her shoulders to make sure her daggers are strapped on correctly, as she walks to the training yard. Just that walk has her puffing heavily, as if she had run a mile or five. She’s trembling, sweaty. Talen and Mughen take one look at her, both heavily sighing. Solas, on the other hand, stands facing her, blue eyes still stormy, magical aura flared out, she flinches when it touches her.

“Solas. Are you participating in the Herald’s training?” Talen’s voice is smooth, as she takes several steps toward the rather pale young woman in her charge. Jayla looks like shit, the remnants of anger hanging off her, some kind of remorse and defeat in her eyes. It does nothing to move Solas. His face stays like stone, mouth a thin line of disapproval.

“I will.”

Fuck her running. This is going to hurt. Jayla scrambles to compartmentalize things, to shove the new pain into a box. It’s hard because she hasn’t danced in weeks. There are no reminders of what she endures for a dream, so now she cannot equate it to what she must endure to survive. Mughen comes for her while she isn’t paying attention. His fist catches her in the jaw, and she forces herself to move with it or have a cracked bone. She sprawls, and pushes herself up in seconds. New pains on top of new pain. Her magic flails wildly trying to form into a spell that will help, but it takes the breath from her, even as she shrouds to dodge the next attack. No time to recover, no point in retreating.

She comes out of the shroud swinging, getting the drop on the elven man for once. It’s rare that she will use magic like this, today she shouldn’t at all, but needs must. Within seconds they fall into a rhythm, strikes and blocks, dodges and rolls. The strikes that land are taking more and more effort to ignore, she is moving slower than she ought to be, than she was even yesterday. Her trainer notices, she can see it in his eyes, curiosity, upset, determination. He presses the attack harder, taking her to the dirt.

The howl she lets out doesn’t stop him, she hasn’t and won’t yield yet. Her fists rain down on him as they roll, she manages to get her legs around his neck. The accumulated pain from repeated strikes against raw skin have her weak, but she holds on to him. He flails, he kicks at her, she rolls and tightens her hold. “Yield!”

He flips her and she scrambles to her feet, eyes on him the whole time. She flings dust, he comes at her from the ground. Elbow in the back, punch to the gut, kick aimed to take out a knee, kidney shot that will have her uncomfortable the rest of the day into the next. The Herald’s breath comes hard, she’s sweating like the first days she learned to go en pointe. There is a point, where the girl is sure she’s going to just drop, down and out for the day, but something clicks off. She reached some threshold, where it’s like she’s floating. The blows come and with a clarity she’s never had before, she watches them. Some land, a few are dodged, more are parried than usual, and some of her own retaliations land as well.

Jayla still ends up in the dirt with Mughen’s arm wrapped around her neck, the other behind her, cutting off air and blood. She kicks, she punches, she screams, and bites him, just so she won’t have to yield. When she comes to stand, the mage come rogue is stumbling, her vision hazy. Aches and pains are there, distant, so distant they might as well be dreamed up, but they are still present. The rogue comes for her again, and she meets him. Sloppy throws and sloppier punches, he has her on the ground in record time. This time her hand slaps frantically at the ground, the “yield” barely heard.

When he releases her, Jayla manages to get on all fours before the pain comes crashing down around her. She hacks, coughs, forcing herself to sit back on her knees, head tilted back as she tries to catch the breath that has been stolen from her. The sky is blue green, more green than blue right here from this angle, the clouds swirling strangely.

“Herald. Do you need to stop?” Talen’s voice calls her back, head rolling a little too freely as she reorients herself. The dwarf looks – worried. Jayla waves it off, calling up a lopsided smile.

“No. No. Needed a breather, I didn’t bounce back like I should have. It’s nothing.” She doesn’t realize that she is ashen. Not white, not yet, but paler than she ought to be. Solas’ eyes are narrow as she stands, staggering a touch before she hides it. Action has calmed in his soul and now whines plaintively.

 _She is injured. We exacerbated it_.

The smite. It hits him as her blades are drawn, hanging near limp in her hands. Her stance, it’s all wrong, and Talen looks hesitant for once. Solas’ eyes widen, the hard line of his mouth turning to a disgusted sneer, aimed only at himself. He had let himself be goaded, and answered to darker parts of himself than he should have with her. The anger over the deal could have been handled better, differently.

The clash of metal has his eyes focusing in on the earth girl. Her arms shake, but she is standing, will like he has never seen keeping her upright. Her chest heaves as if she is holding back a giant, but she keeps moving. He was worried, worried about what he had seen when she sparred Mughen. The former Dalish elf had pushed the girl, had pressed his attacks to the point her eyes had gone glassy, far away, and she’d burst into her normal form. That was not good.

If she was in pain, and it is so likely that she is, Solas knows her mind is shutting down from continued trauma. Nerve ending firing off too many signals. This was going to end badly. He feels her reaching for magic, for another shroud and he slams down a dispel.

“Stop!” The word lands like thunder, and Talen disengages immediately, eyes questioning, thankful. Jayla lets her hands fall, and her head twitches toward him. He can feel how strained her aura is, and as it writhes, attempting to fix itself, he darts forward, catching the woman as she falls, daggers already on the ground as her eyes roll back in her head.

“Fenhedis!” The twin curses and dwarven shout bring attention to them. The rhythmic clash of metal on metal just yards to their left dies down. Then it abruptly grinds to a halt, as Solas stands with Jayla limp in his arms. Murmurs of concern for the Herald break out, and Solas pushes that sick feeling down. He did this. Exacerbated her already weak aura, he could have killed her, had he made her train – her connection to the fade would have snapped.

“Alert Josephine and Cassandra the Herald is in recovery, that she will be staying in my cabin. Get someone to fetch her things.” Taking off, the Templars follow, Solas once again, slams the door in their faces. Laying her on his bed, it takes no time to remove her boots, the harness for her daggers. All of it tossed carelessly to the side.

Now, now he gently threads his aura into hers. His ears lay flat when Jayla lets out a pained whine. They had done her a grave disservice, and likely scared her into not trusting them. Action prowls in his mind, and Solas sends him to guard Jayla’s mind. If she dreams, he would not have her back in the forest of Arlathan.

His magic flows carefully into the weakest points of her. It’s a strange technique, one he hasn’t had cause to use in centuries. He’d used it in battle before, when his mages over extended their mana. It is like charging a focus, carefully filling a vessel so it will not break. Jayla at the moment, is the foci, and he ‘breaks’ his magic off whenever a crack in hers is filled. He barely notices when his door is opened, an elven woman bringing Jayla’s possessions into the cabin. It’s not important, something to deal with later, when the Ancient isn’t worried he’s almost killed a woman.

It is past the noon bell when Solas comes out of where he has immersed himself in the Herald’s aura. It accepts his magic, absorbs it without issue. Strange, but the elder Mage doesn’t have it in him to complain or question that little phenomenon presently. He is simply relieved that she will not have more pain should she recover properly. This should aid her.

A hand falls to the forearm nearest him, and another pained cry leaves Jayla, arm flinching away from his touch. Brows furrowed, Solas leaves the bedside, going to Adan for lyrium and restoratives, appearances sake once more, and returning to her. Brushing past armored statues that now adorn his door way, Solas carefully pulls Jayla into a sitting position. Her pained sounds strike at him. The restorative is carefully tipped into her mouth, and relief once more floods him as she swallows. When it has, all been taken, Solas lets her down again. The potions are placed on his desk, and he reaches with the gentlest magic he has, to look at her. Her nerves are damaged, firing too often to let her mind know something is wrong.

His head hangs, a mental tirade against himself renewed. Teal magic pours from his hand, ice and healing magic entangled together to soothe her and fix what damaged he helped to cause. Solas is aware, not all of this is his fault, his doing. Some of this was caused by the smite, the first exposure is always the worst, and the man can say that from experience. It left the deepest scars on a person’s magic he’s ever seen. But he should not have pushed his aura onto her, smothered her to attempt to teach a lesson. He isn’t even sure what the lesson he tried to teach her was. He lashed out in anger and fear. She lashed out just as violently with her tongue and now they are here.

Eyes closed, the spirit bound mage takes his time in repairing her damaged nerves. It is a slow process, flooding a limb with healing magic and ice too ease her pain while focusing on individual flashes of discomfort. When he’s done, Solas has the sense to grab at his chair and pull it forward enough he can collapse onto it, his head pillowed by an arm on his bed before he rests to replenish his mana. He takes comfort that he’s removed the nerve damage, the bruises on her knuckles, the one that had been forming at the base of her throat. Her ankles still need to be seen to, her feet especially. He needed to ask her what it was she did to cause such strain on herself…

Some hours later, Jayla snaps back into the waking world. Abrupt, like her passing out, she finds herself in a rapidly familiar cabin. Her fingers flex, body aching to stretch, and she does it without a single thought. Her back arches, legs shifting to alleviate built tension, shoulders rolling back – it creates a symphony of cracks and pops, followed by a satisfied, relieved sigh. Her head rolls to the side, and Solas is there, freckles more visible than usual on his face, lines smoothed from his features as he sleeps. She’s not woken up before him before. The urge to reach out and touch him, to let her fingers wander his cheek rises.

The former – would have been ballerina crushes that desire, turning her head away from the elven man. They were oil and fire. Two, three days of making his acquaintance properly and Jayla knows it. If they, if she, - it would be a disaster. Explosive. Too much to be worth it, even if he’s got more passion than any of the boys or men she’s ever been attracted to, to date. Granted, that passion, it is rather easily turned to anger and his anger hurts.

She is afforded perhaps half an hour of silence in the cabin, no sounds but the crackle of fire and their breathing. It’s comforting, keeps her mind from fully waking. Keeps her from realizing she doesn’t feel pain anymore. Not her aura, not her limbs. Her eyes flutter as she dozes, and at some point, she scoots down the bed, curling around Solas almost like a protective barrier, his pillow dragged with her, squished in the clutch of her arms.

That is how Solas wakes, to find the Herald’s face but a breath away from his, her knees touching his left elbow. At first, it doesn’t register. Then smells and the feel of the veil filter in to his awareness. Blue eyes clear of the haze of sleep, his aura wraps around the small human, checking over for things he might have missed. Her own aura feebly tries to entwine with his, and it diminishes the worry the old elf felt. It does nothing to ease his guilt. He rubs his face against the blanket under his cheek, sighing heavily. Awake but a year, in the company of the only person he could use, help, to fix his mistake, and he was alienating her at every turn. This fascinating creature who stood fast against him when she was upset, who dared tie herself to the Dread Wolf – and he has very proficiently driven her from his grasp. Or, at the very least, made it so she will always be wary of him, she will likely always give him as wide a berth as she does Commander Rutherford.

He’s too old for this.

“I’m starting to think you just want me in your bed, Solas.” Jayla whispers it, her eyes fluttering open, fighting to stay awake. Sleep, drowsiness clings to her, tries to seduce her back into dreams. Her voice makes his ears twitch, and she notices it, a little interest shining in her eyes as they train on the appendages, even as he faces her properly.

“Da’len, I am sorry. I shouldn’t have allowed my anger to drive me to violence against you.”

“Damn right.” Her voice is tired but steel lies under the exhaustion. “Work on that shit.”

He can’t help but laugh at her rather crass forgiveness. She was – remarkable. He shouldn’t be within an arm’s length of her, but here he is. Tentatively, he moves a hand toward her, when she doesn’t flinch – and why isn’t she, he had hurt her, she shouldn’t allow him to do this – his hand cups her cheek. Her skin is soft under his thumb that brushes along the rise of her cheek bone. The warmth of her shocks him, though he will not let it show on his face. How long since he willingly touched someone not in pain or on death’s doorstep? He cannot remember, even as his hand shifts so he might trace her brow. “I will, da’len. You have my word, now rest. There will be no lessons today.”

“Mmph,” her reply is more of a noise rather than words, and one of her hands reaches out to pull at him. “Get up here. You’re old. Lots of blankets, stay on your side I stay on mine.”

A demanding little chit, it makes him shake his head. Action presses him forward, encourages him to take the offer for what it is – a hand given to show not all is lost. The tentative friendship might be salvageable. He cannot for a single moment reason why she would do such a thing. He doesn’t deserve it. Were he a better person, he’d leave her in the cabin and set up elsewhere. However, Solas is not a better person by his own estimation, and after having held her the night before. A plan not at all thought out, the idea of doing so again is appealing. Another body beside him was strangely comforting, welcoming. He slept easier.

It is the only reason the spirit bound mage straightens from his seat, hand falling from her face, wincing as his spine realigns in a series of cracks; to walk around the bed, and shift under a layer of blankets. It is not ideal. The bed holds them both, but that is because they are both on the thin side. Staring at the ceiling, Solas listens to Jayla’s breathing, the soft thud of her heartbeat so close to him. She is so young, so willing to forgive him. Why? Has he done something to endear himself to her? They’ve talked only a handful of times. He has healed her more than he’s spoken with her. Jayla, the otherworldly woman, she doesn’t fit into his helpfully created pens for how people acted. Fierce and hesitant, strong but soft, forgiving to a likely fatal length. This girl is nothing like a human should be. She changes everything.

A heavy banging knock rouses Solas, the fire out, no candles having been lit at any point during the day, so the cabin is in darkness. If he could guess, squinting out the small spaces of his shutters, it was perhaps seven in the evening, the sun set, air chilled to the point he traces a fire rune above the bed to warm the cabin. It doesn’t register that he has molded himself around Shepard. That doesn’t register with him, but Action watches as the sleepy mage rolls from the bed, rubbing at his eyes, growling out some sort of acknowledgement to the person on the other side of his door. It’s pulled open only enough for him to stick his head out of it. The Fade Expert is scowling, the expression terrifying the young woman who has a basket in her hands. It had to be the combination of him and the Templars _still_ standing by his door. Likely not the same as before, but it hardly mattered.

“Yes, Da’len? What is it?” He is sharper than intended and the basket is all but thrown at him, his magic reacting instinctively where his reflexes are currently lacking to catch it. With a huff, Solas retreats into the domicile, plucking the basket from where it is held aloft just off to his left, moving to place the basket on the desk.

He almost trips over items that had not been by his door earlier. Cursing and scowling, he toes the trunks curiously. It comes to him, that he had told someone to bring Shepard’s personal affects here. Now they only needed to get the bed moved and things could return to a somewhat normal pace. Providing, of course, the girl didn’t end up cutting deals with more demons or attempting to burn down this cabin in her sleep.

He putters about in the darkness, clearing away notes and tomes, carefully stacking them so he can make room for the trunks. They cannot stay next to the door. Too dangerous. He has better eye sight than most, and Jayla would break her neck if she came into the small cottage without a mage light or candle. He’s just moved the smallest of the pile, when a soft voice grabs his attention.

“Your eyes shine in the dark.”

“A trait of all Elves. Does it disturb you?” Head turning toward the bed, he watches as her lips tilt into a momentary frown, a brow arching in question.

“It’s not something you can turn off, is it? As for disturbing, no. You remind me of a cat, or a coyote.” Sleep hangs on her still, he can see it in the way she barely moves, only her head tracks his movements as he waves his hand at a candle. The flame flickers into life and stays, a small glow helping to drive back the darkness.

“It is not, and that is perhaps the first time someone has called me a predator rather than some prey animal. Most enjoy rabbit and halla comparisons.”

“Most people are fucking assholes.”

“I will not argue that point.” The conversation is carried on as the older Mage moves around his living space, lighting candles, adding fire wood to the hearth and lighting it. In less than ten minutes, the cottage is illuminated, rapidly returning to a livable temperature. That is when Jayla pushes herself upright.

“So. We’ve got some shit to deal with.” No mirth in her tone, no warmth. Solas bites back a sigh, accepting he was right earlier. No one was so forgiving. Good. She shouldn’t be.

“I cannot take back what I did to you –“

“No. You can’t. But you healed it. I think. Gave me your bed, again. I’m willing to put it down to Breach madness that made you lay hands on me. But it doesn’t happen again – ever. If it does, I’m shoving you into a rift and letting you fend for yourself.” Again, her tone is flat, no amusement touching it. Still, Solas feels mirth bubbling in him. Ferocity, willingness to keep herself safe. He cannot know if she would follow through, but he hopes she would.

“I will not lay a hand on you unless it is to heal. This I swear to you, Jayla.”

“Good. I was stupid to do what I did with Action. I don’t need a lecture on it, I realized it right around the time I had to steal your clothes to get to my place again. But, you can’t sit there, stand there, and say I don’t need all the help I can get. I’m probably a decade behind where I should be in magical studies, and twenty plus years off when it comes to the customs and history. I need some slack and some patience afforded here. You said you’d help, are you going to?”

“Yes. I am willing to help you hone your magic. It is unconventional, but the underlying principles are presumably the same. You use it like any other mage, pulling from the Fade, manipulating the Veil, you just shape it differently from what I can tell. I will make sure you don’t over tax yourself in the future. However, you must practice what I teach whenever there is time. If you don’t you won’t last long in battle and you won’t survive for long either.”

“Fair enough. Is that my stuff?” Her abrupt change in conversation makes Solas tilt his head, mind already switching gears as she thrusts her chin toward the smallest trunk.

“Mm. I have offered you my home, it is warded, we can easily both live here. Neither of us has much in the way of possessions. It will make it easier to prolong lessons as well.”

“Do I get to ditch my shiny bookends?” There is hope now, the young woman perking up, dark eyes shining like stars. Solas sighs heavily, shrugging his shoulders.

“That, you will need to speak with Commander Rutherford about.”

Jayla flops back onto the bed, watching as dust flies into the air around her. Of course, this meant a visit to the Commander. Because he was the lord of all things anti-magic. Which – oh. Her mind flips the idea around a few times and her eyes slide to Solas, who is unpacking the basket. Cold rolls for dinner, stuffed with meat and cheese, a bottle of honey wine, some fruit all set out.

“If someone can take your mana, energy, whatever the hell fuels magic, can you take it back?” To her mind, it was a door, a river, a two-way street. If a Templar could suppress and drain her abilities, logically, if she can focus long enough, she can take it back. Right? It makes a little sense. Sounds more complicated than she’d like it to be. Mostly because of the whole – focus past the pain. “Oh, and is there a really smooth floored place around here? I’ve been itching to do my own morning exercises and so far, I’ve met with uneven stones, uneven planks and ice.”

Two different conversation starters come at him. Solas focuses on getting her food into one of the napkins provided. When it’s secure, he shifts across the distance, arm out stretched toward Jayla in offering. She happily takes it from him. “I doubt you will find a completely smooth floor anywhere within Haven. You will, unfortunately have to make do with the stone and planks.”

Retreating, Solas sits at the chair, still pulled between desk and bed, taking up his fruit first. “As for taking back your mana, in theory, yes. You could, with enough focus, grab back mana stolen from you during a battle.” He is careful to not mention _whom_ the target of the mana reclamation might be. As he said, the theory is sound, but it takes a mage of extreme mental focus to not collapse or falter when their mana was stripped or suppressed. That Jayla was even moving the next day – he’s been an idiot. The knowledge has him glowering at his sandwich taking a vicious bite.

“Whoa, dude, that sandwich is dead already, chill.” Jayla is nibbling at hers, and seeing Solas just attack his food is a little on the distressing side. He’s brooding, upset, still. Jayla can’t hold it against him, she’s still upset too. Just because they’d talked it out doesn’t mean she was going to cuddle with him on the daily. The minute her shit was squared away it was back to being up a dawn and in bed by the time the moons rose. Solas has proven dangerous, again, as if she had forgotten the way he pushed his magic through the mark – her hand – on the mountain. At some point, she’s going to confront him with that.

“Da’len, eat.” Storm blue eyes meet hers for a moment before training on the roll. Rolling her eyes, Jayla does as she’s told. It wouldn’t become a thing. She had free will, her own mind. She was just hungry. Which is why she was eating.

The girl’s hand flails half way through her sandwich, and to Solas’ surprise, the bottle of wine slaps into her hand. His eyes narrow, watch as she grabs the cork between her teeth to tug it out. When it’s gone, she lets it drop to her lap, pausing a moment to look at him.

“Do you care if we just split this from the bottle?”

Solas sighs heavily and shakes his head. The youths of this time were just as uncouth as he had been. The elven man very carefully does not notice the way her lips press to the mouth of the bottle or how she takes a ridiculously long pull from it. He keeps blessedly quiet, his attraction strapped ruthlessly into a dark corner of his mind. When she passes it to him, he drinks from the bottle and the meal passes much quicker after that. When the bottle is empty, sandwiches gone, fruit eaten to the cores, Jayla becomes restless.

Three weeks, she’s never gone without dancing in some form or another for so long. Her legs want to move. She wants to move. Familiar patterns, familiar strain. After the bullshit of the last few days, she needs it. So, the dancer shoves herself out of the bed. Solas is quiet, contemplative, turned back toward his desk. His ears twitch when he hears the rustle of fabric and leather. Not seeing what she’s doing is rather vexing for him. But she gives him a bit of a hint within moments.

“Can I use this tunic and undershirt?”

Green wool and beige linen are thrust into his line of sight. Warmth is at his side, not fabric, not leather, not metal, _warmth_. Swallowing Solas nods, Action sitting up, alert once again. More rustling fabric and the air changes direction as she moves behind him.

“Will I pass out if I go practice body control?” Her voice is at his left ear and Solas swivels in his seat. His eyes turn into dinner plates and any moisture in his mouth evaporates. The girl is in his undershirt and tunic, the long tails on the back and front covering most of her, the hem of it, curved, sits high on her hips. She’s not wearing pants, or boots, no stockings either. He can see the band of her smalls, but other than that – she is bare.

Her fingers snap in front of his face. “Solas. Are hips and legs seriously that big a deal here?” if they are, Jayla is going to shock the shit out of a lot of people. She doesn’t like to wear a lot of clothing. It hinders her movement, it stifles her, she gets too hot. Half the time at home she was half dressed.

“Pardon. Forgive me. You took me by surprise.”

“I wouldn’t have noticed.”

“You should be fine, so long as this body control is not especially taxing.”

“Great. I’m going to go do that then,” her enthusiasm is baffling. What was this body control practice, exactly, and how did it not warrant pants or shoes? Humans required shoes. Solas is at least, very certain of that.

“Where are you going exactly?” He’s standing, already reaching for his staff. Leaving the Herald to her own devices at this moment was not a good idea. He hasn’t even got a clue what time it is yet, and letting the girl walk around like that was asking for trouble.

“There’s that big open space we call a training yard. I’m going down there. Sure, as shit not going to do this in the middle of our little circle of houses. If I do it in front of the chantry the mothers and sisters will have heart attacks. This way, if anyone sees me, it’ll be guards, Templars, or Cullen. And I am perfectly fine with making them uncomfortable for a while.”  Jayla doesn’t pause, stepping around the pile of her things, small, but there, and opening the door. Her guards, stoic as ever, are there. Jayla breezes past them, Solas ten steps behind her. She doesn’t see the looks, but Solas does, it has him scowling as she walks brazenly through haven toward her destination. Thankfully the moons are up, not at their zenith yet, but the village is largely asleep. They encounter few people on their little journey.

The ground is cold under her feet, but it’s a welcome sensation. Solid ground, magic not tearing, she doesn’t feel like she’ll fall apart at the seams. Chilled wind nips at her legs. These are minor discomforts, once she falls into her routines, this will all disappear. At the unofficial middle of the training zone, Jayla can hear the wind, the sounds of the nugs, the gentle hum of people speaking. It’s so easy to turn her focus into herself and block it all out.

Solas, and her Templars, mill around, curious, worried, a touch restless. The girl is bathed in moonlight, beautiful, dark skin highlighted, the lack of clothing pulled into focus. He is surprised to see her engage in a series of stretches. Ones that are meant to loosen and limber a person who is about to do something rather athletic. His eyes narrow as she shifts through the poses. Had Jayla not agreed this wouldn’t be strenuous? The urge to haul her over his shoulder and stalk back to their domicile looms over him like a cloud.

Jayla shifts from stretching straight into the dance. Tribal wasn’t her strongest genre of dance, yet it would have to do. She’d always been a bit iffy about this sort of movement, feeling more exposed then when she was fully, truly naked.  Still, she summons the music into her memory, lets the beat dictate her movements and simply flows into it.

Tribal dancing has ever fascinated her. More so than the traditional hula dances most often offered during her youth. It was nice to be sent to the main land for middle and high school where things were more varied. This had been a semester long love affair before she discovered other genres in addition to her ever-present ballet.  She only kept it up, so she could justify the outfits and trips to tribal dance show cases.

Jayla’s eyes are not here, where she is. They are far away, seeing yet not. Her body shifts to music none of the men present can here, but roots them to spot. It is sinuous, the way she moves. Like water, and then stuttering. Even without her eyes, her mind, on the here and now, Jayla manages to look sultry and inviting.  Solas hasn’t got the words to describe what he is seeing.

It is – nothing like any civilized dance he has been exposed to. Too much body movement, too much skin on show – blatantly on show. Action is prowling, they are prowling, eyes shifting between the woman and her guards. She’s summoned no magic yet, but Jayla doesn’t need magic to keep the Templars entranced.

He’ll wager this is not a dance that has an equivalent in Thedas. It’s too raw, too elegant and coarse all at the same time. There are hints of religious context to it, when she crouches, hands hovering over the earth, coming to skim over her face, be raised to the sky. The Fade walker is thankful, more than thankful, she did not do this within their patch of cottages or in front of the chantry. She looks too wild, half undone hair moving with her, legs exposed, the length of them drawing the eye without fail. Her torso undulates and Solas hears a sharp intake of breath to his left.

Her hips start to shake, to roll, and someone swears to the maker. At least with the jerky, yet coordinated moves of the dance, she isn’t as – threatening of a figure. The flow of her, however, when she comes into parts of the dance that entices, she’ll be labeled many unsavory things.

“Maker’s breath,” Rutherford is beside Solas, the mage can’t tell when he stopped moving and when the human had come to stand beside him. “What is she doing?” Solas barely tears his eyes off Jayla to look at the blond.

“She said it was body control practice, I would hazard to say, it is a dance of her people, Commander.” His eyes settle on her and she’s crouching again, hands telling a story, eyes focusing on them, without seeing them, and her hips sway, well, pop, as she moves to stand upright one more. Solas feels, and hears the man beside him suck in a shocked breath. He sympathizes. The girl who is meant to be chaste, a messenger from Andraste, she currently looks more heathen than any Alamarri or Avvar ever will.

Turning, torso moving hypnotically, Cullen clears his throat. Solas’ eyes cut to him once more, his face is red, eyes now on the ground. Clearly the man is as uncomfortable as Solas feels. He’s looking for something to say, brown eyes shifting from the dirt to the Herald, and shakes his head.

“Don’t let her do this in daylight.”

“If you want her to not do something, Commander, I suggest you speak with her about it. I very much doubt she’ll listen to me.”

As if in a dream, Jayla hears the men speaking. She can see the Commander, amusement suffusing her whole being to see him so flustered. As for her guards, they have stopped circling her at least, rooted in spot, eyes glinting from under their helmets as they watch her. Even the apostate is interested. A far away part of her wonders if anyone can claim this dance as part of their culture, or if she will be shocking many more people until someone finds her a floor that’s level. As her current dance comes to a close, the music softening in her mind, a new song swells, a new dance is smoothly transitioned into. 

This dance is somehow worse for the men. Worse, at least, for Solas, who feels her pull at the veil. It's a gentle tug, nothing more than a drop in the bucket, but it makes him tense. She shouldn't be using magic. He'd just repaired what he'd broken. Gnashing his teeth together, he's poised to snatch the dark woman up, when music filters into the clearing. It's strange, not of Arlathan, not of Thedas, and has him cursing a blue streak. How were they to explain this? How was he to make progress in the few days remaining if she continued to defy his suggestions? 

"Andraste preserve me. She'll have us all labeled heathen heretics if anyone from the chantry sees her. Find a way to get her to do that privately. Talk to her. You seem to have a rapport." The Commander twists away, stalks stiffly back toward Haven's gates. Solas is left closing his eyes, sucking in a slow breath and letting it out even slower. How, exactly, had he become the Herald's keeper?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a long one. I could have broken it up, but it wouldn't have flowed quite right. And behold, our ballerina is scandalising our lovely Thedosians. We're off to a grand start.


	8. Training that Y'know Trains

She’s been dancing for at least two hours now. Her legs are glistening, his shirts are sticking to her, and the music simply changes, all instrument, drums that guide her. Solas wonders at the way Jayla isn’t tiring. If anything, the longer she dances, the more at peace she seems, the stronger her aura feels. It’s making the Templars shifty. If not for the picture she makes, the spirit bound mage isn’t sure this would end well for her.

Her hips give a rather saucy wiggle and bounce, chest fluidly following while a smirk forms on her lips. She’s more aware now, coming back to the here and now. His aura reaches for hers, curious as to what is healing it, bolstering it. It’s the ambient energy around them. He can feel her drawing it in, and it makes him stare at her incredulously. No mage here drew like that, not from the ground they walk on, the air they breathe. Mages here tugged and manipulated at the veil, pulling pieces of the Fade to them. Jayla certainly did that – he’s felt it. However, her newest ability would change how she relied on the fade and veil. She might not have to at all. His eyes narrow as he assesses the strength of her. It’s considerable, that of a seasoned mage, far older than herself. To hold that much energy and not be bursting? To not accidentally discharge wild magic? It was – something to keep his eye on.

Solas puts it from his mind, but watches her, takes in the flight of her hands, how her head moves, the way she smiles on cue. He’s amused at how she is starting to keep most of her focus on her guards. Flirtatious, or inviting, those movements, looks, are aimed at them. His head shakes, Jayla was going to get herself into trouble.

The feeling she’s experiencing is unlike any other. Magic buzzed under her skin, feeling ready to simply flow from her. To this point she had to pull it when she wanted it and it felt clunky, cumbersome. Dancing, it distills her, after a fashion, thoughts, worries, erased by her concentration on the dance. She can feel the earth under her feet breathing, the water in the lake gives her a phantom kiss, the air tastes sweeter too. Jayla could swear it was warmer, though, that was likely because of her exertion. Mild, prolonged, for some reason she felt more energized than tired. It was nice, wonderful really. For the first time since waking up in Thedas, Jayla feels **connected**. An emptiness has been filled, not in some crass manner, but she feels right. Something is clicking in place.

The displaced mage feels good enough to want to attempt magic like she’s been described. It’s frivolous, it’ll get her in trouble with Tin can one and Tin can two, but it might just be worth it. Her eyes close, hips rolling rapidly for a moment before her whole body rolls. Fire pops into her imagination, one that won’t burn, that is temporary. Like a magnet, she’s pulled to a place where her magic sings and the flames burst into being at her feet. Her eyes open, a brilliant smile on her face. It might be green, but she wasn’t immolating herself, and it was holding steady, similar her trainers had described to her. The music doesn’t register to her as sustained magic, and if it did, Jayla would have doubted the Magi here would consider it as real magic.

The shifting grind of armor has her pinning her guards with a come-hither stare, rolling her hips almost lewdly at them. Jayla’s always hated being bound. Tin can one, and Tin can two count as restraints. The flames are boosted a touch higher when she threads a bit more of herself into it. Her boys look shifty, her smile is feral.

“Jayla.”  Solas’ sharp tone makes her focus snap to him, green flames gone in a blink, music grinding to a halt. She doesn’t feel remorse, and will not be saying a damn thing to the Templars. “It’s getting late, we’ve lost half the night, and you have to resume training if you’re to be of use while we’re in the Hinterlands.”

Dark eyes peer at the elf silently before she sighs heavily, turning abruptly, hands back at her sides, beginning the walk back to their cabin. A few yards has Jayla casting a look behind her at the three stationary men. “Come on then, if you don’t hurry up I’m taking the whole bed again. I’m sure our friends need to go switch out to write a report for Cullen.”

Her tone makes the Wolf spirit scowl, she’s beckoning him like a wayward pup, a child. As if it isn’t his bed she’s about to crawl into. Stalking after her, Solas contemplates ousting her from the bed. It’s not as if she’s not healed. Healed and casting magic she shouldn’t be while dancing lewdly in the middle of the void taken night.

Her – Solas’ shirts are flung off the second she hits the door. They could be washed tomorrow. For the night, however, she can’t sleep in sweat. A trunk is grabbed and moved as she walks farther into the cabin, flipped open by Solas’ desk and a random light shirt pulled out. Thankfully, for their comfort, Jayla is already buried under the covers of the bed when Solas comes inside. He sighs seeing her there, and starts to snuff candles, poking the fire to see how long it will last into the morning. He doubts they’ll need it, with two of them in such a small space.

“The Commander recommended you not practice that particular skill where anyone might see you.” He’s trying for casual, but misses the mark. He can practically feel Jayla stiffening in the bed.

“He can shove it. I’ll dance naked in front of the Chantry just to spite him. He’s being a jerk. It’s not my fault I’m a mage. And you saw! I summoned fire tonight. I don’t feel weird any-“ his hand claps over her mouth, shocking her, he’d been at least ten feet away four seconds ago. He’s waving his hand again, sealing off the cabin.

“You realize this domicile has two guards outside? You should not be able to cast _at all_ after a smite like the one levered on you by the Commander. No one needs to know about that, Da’len. You play a very dangerous game. Play to survive instead of to spite.” The elf is damn lucky Jayla isn’t a much of a biter or licker. She does glare at him however, and huffs when she is released.

“Shouldn’t people be pleased I’m recovered? That I can cast weird flames that don’t burn? And what’s wrong with my dancing? I do it all the time, a whole bunch of different types of dancing. I came here in one of my dance outfits, which, tomorrow, I need to get my pointe shoes out. If I don’t practice I’m going to end up breaking a toe or my ankle when I do dance.” She’s annoyed, but now that she’s in the bed, warm, rapidly becoming more and more comfortable, fatigue is setting in.

“That was dancing, was it? I have never seen anything like it – and I have been many places in the Fade, Jayla. Dance like that in public and someone will accuse you of being possessed.” Moving away from her, Solas reluctantly sheds his foot wraps and shirt before climbs into the bed. He keeps a layer of blankets between himself and Jayla, for proprieties sake. She was far too young, far too tempting, and far too volatile for him to be close to her. Even just to sleep. He lays on side, back facing her, ignoring her breath beside him, the way her scent permeates the room.

Jayla is asleep long before Solas is.

Action is with Jayla when Solas slides into the fade – into him. The great beast shakes his fur out, settling the other half of himself into places before turning his attention onto the young woman seated with him. Solas is content to simply rest tonight, and gives an exhausted greeting to his spirit.

“Veil fire. That’s a strange name, you said it was a memory, an echo of a fire that had burned before. So why would it be called Veil fire. It should be called something else, something that really describes what it is. It’s not fire made from the veil.” Jayla has summoned said fire in front of them. She’s pouting, having already detailed everything that’s gone on (most of it) since she saw him last. He’d shoved his nose against her chest to evaluate the state of her, growling at what Jayla perceived to be Solas’ angry overstep. She had no idea he was upset because he’d been a part of the attack.

“Ask the humans to rename it. The Ancients didn’t use such inelegant names for their magical creations.” If it’s possible for a spirit to seem smug, Action does now. It makes Jayla narrow her eyes at him. It. No gender. Or maybe? That would be a rather important question to ask.

“Non-sequitur, do spirits ascribe to gender at all?” The Wolf pauses, and Solas is just as baffled as the wolf is. Why had she asked such a thing? Was it particularly important?

“Not especially. Most of my kin do not consider themselves one or the other. They simply are.”

“Do you?” Jayla just wants to know. Mostly so she can think of Action correctly in her mind. The wolf in questions huffs a laugh. He leans over and snuffles at her neck.

“Male. So yes, is there a particular reason that you’re interested in the gender of spirits?” Solas and Action are quite interested. It wasn’t often dreamers thought about that sort of thing. Dreamers were more worried about Demons, possession and what trouble they could get into. Or who they could manipulate while in the dream, if they were that sort.

“Gender can be really important to people. I didn’t want to assume you were a man, call you him and then learn you were a girl, later. Or that you really hated gendered pronouns. Better to be safe than have everyone upset.” Jayla’s shoulders shrug and she pets the nose that is still quite close to her face. “Gender is a little complicated back home. It’s good though, good for a lot of people.”

Solas takes this information in, greedy for more. He tries to nudge Action to ask more about her home, but Action brushes him off in favor of her attention. It makes his counterpart stew a touch bitterly. “Your home sounds fascinating. We should speak of it one day. Today, however, we must go over the finer points of how you can control and call your magic. First, tell me what you do when you cast.”

“I imagine a spell I’ve seen, and I make it happen. Feels a little like being too full, it wells up, bursts out. At least the area of effect ones feel like that. Smaller ones, like my arcane missiles, it’s different, abrupt, takes a little more out of me, they’re concentrated, meant to do more damage. My hammers, it’s – it’s fire. Fire in my heart, in my hands, around me, the hammer makes it hurt. Other people, not me. And my shield, well it’s meant to stop things being thrown at it, but whenever I saw it enacted, it didn’t keep people out. So, neither does mine.”

That makes man and spirit blink slowly. That wasn’t like any sort of magic they’ve ever even heard of. And it works that way in her place of birth? People simply expel magic so violently? Use shields that aren’t good for much past spell cancellation. Action wants to bury his head beneath his paws. Six nights to try and make her magic not exhaust her. Six nights to keep her alive for the next month or longer.

“All right, da’len. We must start at the beginning. Sit for me, be comfortable.” He settles beside her when his student has folded herself into lotus position. He is surprised that she does so, so easily. He could comment on that a different day.

“Now, clear your mind – “

“You want me to meditate?” Her inquisitive nature is going to make this harder, Solas can tell. Action huffs, prods her head with his muzzle.

“After a fashion, now, breath. Deep, even breaths. Focus on the ins and the out. Look past what you feel, what you hear, what you smell or taste. You have to find silent peace.” It was the most basic of practices for a young mage. They watch carefully as Jayla sits with her back straight, palms on her knees and closes her eyes. She does as asked of her– physically at least, deep breaths in and slow out. After a few minutes, however, she sags and shakes her head.

“This isn’t how I find my zen, bud.” Her eyes open, shifting to the large wolf. “My zen? It’s – weird. But I can show you, we can figure out a way to make it happen without me – you’ll see.” Solas is alarmed for a moment, a myriad of things running through his and action’s shared mind. It’s got Action raising a proverbial brow at the elven mage he’s attached to.

Jayla, unaware of this, stands up, dusting off her shift and closing her eyes. They watch as the shift becomes – something oddly akin to a corset without the cinching or laces, at least that is what it looks like to them. Solas had seen it before. When she first was seen in Haven. There is a small translucent skirt, and on her feet – Solas has seen those as well. They were what she wore, satin slippers with ribbons that snaked up her ankles.

The darkly colored woman has them in a studio in moments. Fast enough for Solas and Action to feel momentary disorientation. For a newcomer to the Fade, Jayla was adept at this. Looking around, they quietly marvel at the lighting of the room, little glass spheres holding lights, not fire, something different. The wall of mirrors with a bar on it get only a cursory glance. The wood of the floors makes Solas realize that this was what she was looking for. He doubts they will find such a place within Haven. Perhaps Orlais, or one of the Ferelden cities, but not Haven.

They watch, as Jayla stretches, her arches, shoulders, arms.  The hair on their back standing when music fills the room. Soft, gentle, instruments like a piano and pan pipes. Though the pipes are more refined. They’re puzzling out the sounds when Jayla proceeds with her barre practice. Her mind takes her to the very basic, and she slides into third position. Tendu comes first, repeated several times, and moving into degage and so on. It comes to her so easily, and by the time she’s working plies her mind is clear. She moves into more advanced practices. Jayla treated this warm up as if she’d been gone from barre for months. It worked to her advantage, the memories, her muscles, regardless of being dream or not, appreciated the extensive warm ups that flowed seamlessly to introductory up to advanced.

The paired spirits pay attention when they feel the air in the room change. Their charge has left the bar by the mirrors. Her dance is – delicate. Precise in a way her earlier dancing had not been. And she is once again channeling energy into herself. She’s doing it with every movement. It’s fascinating, as much as the way she can shift onto her toes and still dance. It causes her pain, Solas can read the signs of it in her face. After yesterday, seeing it up close, he can tell. That worries him. That pain is part of what clears her mind. That is – dangerous. Wildly dangerous.

“You cannot dance whenever you need focus, Da’len.” Action huffs a soft laugh, watching as her eyes pop open and her cheeks warm. Action can tell, her face becomes warmer, the red undertones more pronounced.

“I know that. However, this _is_ how I shut the world out.”

“It’s how you apparently draw energy as well. Tell me, how do you feel right now.”

“Happy, content. Full, connected.” The words come easy to her, without prompting from her mind. Jayla couldn’t lie about this. Not how dancing makes her feel. It was too important to her.

“Mm. I want you to hold out your hand for me da’len.  Summon fire for me, a small flame in the palm of your hand, keep it lit until I tell you to release it.”

The directive makes her sigh heavily. Immediately, her hand is lifted before her, eyes settling for a moment on her palm. A small, terribly small flame sparks to life. They watch as her brows draw together, lips tilting down into a frown. He feels her thread aura into the flame, trying to make it bigger. Something more than a spark, or a flame the size of something that would come out of a lighter. It works, for a moment, before it flares out abruptly.  That makes Jayla sit herself heavily on the floor of the studio.

“Again, Jayla.”

Her eyes close this time, she imagines dancing, finds a bit of calm to chase out the annoyance. The flame flickers to life in her hand, small, but strong. This time, Jayla just focuses on the little lick of fire, eyes opening carefully, like she’s afraid it will flicker out of existence again. Action and Solas let her be, counting the time she keeps the flame a light. They don’t reprimand her for making a mistake that most people did when starting out. All of them want bigger and better than what they can create at first. She immediately learned from it, that was something, quite something. They tell her to let the flame go out three times and then relight it. If she’s frustrated, the Herald doesn’t show it or say anything. She simply lets it go, and calls it back.

She’s doing exceedingly well, until a bang jolts her from the Fade. Being a light sleeper sucked. It’s barely dawn, they’ve been asleep maybe four hours, five tops, and people are waking up in Haven. That had been Adan’s cabin, or maybe the one across the way. Jayla doesn’t know, she just knows that this cabin is warm, she’s not getting up thank you very much. As if in protest, the young woman snuggles deeper into the furs on top of the bed. Snuggles deeper and finds her nose smashed against a chest.

Her eyes pop open again, pulling her head back just enough to see – oh. Solas. Solas chest. She was. Oh. She slides away from him – or would have, if her arm wasn’t caught under his body and his wasn’t wrapped around her waist. Wrapped around very securely. Looks like they’re cuddle buddies. Damn. Well, damn. Does she wake him up, or does she do the wiggle dance until he turns over? Ugh, she needs to pee. And he needs to not go to bed shirtless again. Yeah there were covers between them, but still. Chest. Her face. Cuddling.

This is just too much for this week. It wasn’t even mid-week yet, or is it? She needs a calendar, she needs to _learn_ the calendar. Jayla shifts her free hand up between them, and shoves at his chest. “Solas.” He barely twitches. She sighs, head dropping against his chest. This is – ugh. Fine. She was going to sleep more if he couldn’t be bothered to wake up. Just a little while longer. Solas will be up before mid-morning, she’s never seen him sleep later than that.

When Jayla blinks out of their shared dream space, Solas separates himself from action. It’s the work of a moment, and they are seated beside one another. The dance studio had disintegrated the moment Jayla left. The forest, well, they came here to run. To remember a time when things were both better and worse. Now they shift to a space completely their own. Where no one should stumble upon them.

“She’s going to be a handful.”  
“You’re just now figuring that out?” Solas snorts his head shaking as the room comes into focus. Half library, part study, part study with gadgets and paraphernalia to match. A crowded room, but the chaos of it makes complete sense to wolf and man.

“Her channeling is – interesting. Where does all the energy go?” The wolf stations himself in the lounge chair, curling into a ball and resting his eyes.

“I haven’t the smallest clue, old friend. She does so effortlessly, however. This is the second time I’ve seen her do it. The first just a touch before we both slept. It is fascinating. Promising. I have theories.”  The man is perusing his bookshelves, looking for something that will either disprove or solidify those theories. Silence falls for a time, beast resting, mage plucking books from the shelves.  Solas has five in hand before three red eyes open, studying him.

“Are you going to tell me them?”

“We share a mind. You already know what I am thinking.” There is no reprimand, annoyance or even mild disgust in the tone. It’s a fact. Solas doesn’t want to talk about it, and Action already knows what hides in his mind.

“Fine. Shall we talk about the way she’s buried in your arms, then?” Solas stiffens and eyes the wolf with thinly veiled disdain. Of all the things for Action to observe. Of all the things for Action to even care about – it was that?

“She’s too young.”

“They are all too young, friend.”

“I’ve destroyed her life, and will likely do so again in the future when I have my foci back. To entertain such things would be to forget our goals. We’ve slept far too long to ignore them any longer.”

“So you say. What will you do if another takes her from us?” The spirit is not impressed with Solas and his guilt. They made a choice, the best they had at the time. The Empire was failing, corruption and excess ate away at a once beautiful culture. Slavery plagued the People. To the spirit, it is no surprise the Humans swept in like they did and took over what the Evanuris had wrought. They should have stayed after the Veil was erected, should have lead their people to a better future. Another choice, one to safe guard their existence, and not easily made. The past, however, is the past. Action sees promise within Jayla. Solas willfully ignores it.

“What would you have me do? She is already bound to you by a bargain. When we go to die – “ he heaves a heavy sign. “You’ve condemned her to death with us. You know that, do you not? Our last battle will be to keep our brothers from taking back what they feel is theirs.”

“Perhaps I have. It is a fitting bargain. I keep her alive, until that battle, and then – we shall see. Fine better reasons to avoid her, Fen’Harel. You have yet to answer my question. If another comes to take her – what will you do for the little mage who promises to be our shield?”

“No one will take her from us. Stop talking like someone would dare try.”

Jayla wakes a second time more easily. No noises to jolt her awake. The sun is bright enough that she knows they have overslept. This time, Jayla can’t stay like this – though, at least her arm isn’t still underneath the elf. Their legs, and blankets, however, are a tangled mess. She can’t win for losing right now. Her hands shove against Solas’ chest gently to shake him.

“Solas, wake up. I have to go pee, and you’re heavy!” He snuffles, and shoves his face into her hair. Jayla squawks and shakes him harder, doing a full body squirm to see if it will loosen his hold on her. Honestly, for a man who was so slim, he had strength. A considerable amount. He’s carried her now three times, and hadn’t complained even a little.

“Solas!” She imagines little lightning bolts on her fingers, static but about five times worse, and presses her fingers to his exposed side. He wakes up swearing a blue streak, eyes wild while his arms crush her against him. Elven flows from his mouth, and from the tone, it’s not exactly public approved. He takes a second to come back to the world, and looks down at her in confusion. That confusion morphes into mild annoyance when he realizes what she’s done. He rolls from the bed easily, releasing her in the same movement. His hand settles on his side as she shoves herself into sitting position.

“Sorry. You weren’t waking up. I tried the nice way.” Jayla has the grace to look sorry, though she really isn’t. He had to get up. They had to get up. Shit to do. Five days until it was time to go walking into a war. “Let me heal it?”

He turns to her, walking forward, and she blinks rapidly. He – he’s got. Shit. What did men do in this fucking place? Were they all in the gym 24/7? Was it the lifestyle that came with the period of advancement they were in or not in? Ugh. Muscles. On Solas. She wants to lick him. But no, no. He’s a teacher, co-worker, older than her. She isn’t walking this walk.

Lunging forward her hand settles over the angry red marks her fingers left. She’s thinking about how that girl in that one show about witches, how her husband healed, it was all light and then boom! No more ouchie. This – isn’t working quite like that. The light comes, but the red wound stays. She tries twice more before Solas takes her hand in his.

“Here, like this.” His aura flows against hers, and guides it through her hand onto his skin. Abruptly  she can feel skin pulling together, becoming smooth and the inflammation leaving. It’s like she’s in the magic healing him. Not just outside watching it happen. Well, on the outside feeling it happen. When the marks are completely healed, he lets her go. Jayla eyes her hand and then his side. He helped her do that. She knew what it felt like now. She wants to do it again.

“Since we are on the subject of healing, perhaps you will permit me to take a look at your legs? I noticed when you were recovering from our…altercation, there is more war and tear on them than there ought to be. I’m surprised you haven’t broken something.”

Her face heats up, and now that Action has seen it, Solas sees it, the added warmth on her cheeks. Her hand lifts, trying to wave him and her injuries away. He is catching that hand again, crouching in front of the bed at her side, pinning her with a dark look. It makes the smile that had crawled onto her face melt away. She feels like a bug under a microscope again, and it makes her squirm.

“Listen, Solas, it’s not a big deal. I’m a dancer by trade and it happens. I was going to go to the doctors back home after audition and performance season was done. It would have been a couple months, and then I’d be right as rain.” Flippant, attempted reassurance. It makes his eyes narrow and in several movements, he has flipped back the covers, dragging her legs around to dangle from the bed. She makes a very undignified sound and huffs at him angrily.

“It’s nothing!”

“You forget that we are walking to the Hinterlands, da’halla. That is four days of walking. And then likely more until we can find horses. I would be remiss to allow you to further injure yourself.”

Gah, his hands are on her legs. His hands are on her legs. She sighs heavily, because he might, might, have a point. He is examining her, she can feel the way his aura pokes and prods into her. Strange, very strange. Her ankles are next, and really if he goes after her feet he’s going to have a job of it. He’s shaking his head, moving back to her shins. The prodding goes away, but now there is a far more intense feeling. Her legs, generally, do not ache. If she stepped on something wrong, or it was exceedingly cold in the studio, or she was en pointe too long, then it hurt.  Now her legs feel a little like jello. Very warm, happy jello. When he gets to her ankles, it’s – tingly prickly, weirdness. Her feet? That shit hurts. Broken toes snap back to where they should be and Jayla has to grab Solas’ shoulders, biting near clear through her lip to not yell. Ten toes all snapped back into place, three toenails abruptly regrown.

When the magic retreats, her hold on him disappears. He looks up at her, and she looks mildly murderous. “You could have warned me you jerk. Shit, I don’t know what hurt worse, when I lifted the toe nails, broke the toes, or you putting them to rights again. I need you to know, they’ll only go back to their gross state. It’s part of what I do.”

“So you habitually torture yourself? Your ankles hadn’t any cushioning in them, your shins had tiny fissures forming up the length of them. This is something your people do for what?”

“Passion. Dancing is a passion. It pays fairly well, but for me? It’s the only thing I will ever love.” Jayla responds to him flatly, moving to the left and standing up. It’s very strange. Years of mild pain and suddenly none. She hasn’t felt like this in – hell, maybe since middle school when training became everything in her life.  “Thank you.”

She shoves herself into dirty clothes, grabbing toiletries and clean ones from her trunk. Heading for the door she pauses, “I’m going to wash things later. Leave me yours and I’ll do them all.”  Jayla waltzes out the door with a far too bright, “Good morning Jailers!” to the men outside her door.

 ****

It’s a council meeting. Jayla would rather poke her eyes out with hot pokers than be here. But, these were the people who knew how to deal with shit. So she listens as each speak, and go back and forth, again, on who would best seal the breach. Personally, Jayla isn’t letting more Templars into Haven. There are enough already. More than enough.

“Stop it. I haven’t even set foot in the Hinterlands yet. We went over this last time too. Nothing has changed so this argument is pointless. Now, it’s going to take about four days you said to get to the Hinterlands? How long should I expect to be there? Estimations are fine, I’m just looking for a ball park figure.”

“There is much to do there, Jayla. The farms haven’t been heard from since the war came to the region, the crossroads is in disarray, there are rumors of camps set up in the woods of opposing factions, a cult in the hills. There is a significant amount of work to do, to stabilize the region and establish ourselves as a force for good.” Cassandra leans her hip against the table, starring at the map like if she does it long enough things will change. Little markers will move and problems will disappear. Jayla sighs.

“Okay. So I’m going to be there a while. No big. So let’s get you guys busy. Tell me what these other little markers are.” The Herald points at one in the Kirkwall region and Leliana takes over to tell her what each of them means. There is one from the minor noble family of Trevelyan, offering once again to lend her the clout of their name. She has Josephine deal with it, a polite refusal. Some Bann in Highever is pissy about elves and poor farmer on his land or some shite? Cullen is instructed to send rations and men to keep the refugees safe.  A Teryn sends his bit, that goes to Josephine. They need to start raising funds, the soldiers are put on that as well. They aren’t to start until she leaves the town, to keep them busy, she says a Cheshire cat smile on her face as she leaves.

Jayla is half way to freedom and her lesson with her favorite Dwarf-Elf combo when Leliana catches her. The Wardens are gone. That doesn’t sound good. Leliana confirms it is in fact very bad, if a blight comes the were SOL, and if they’re disappearing for other reason? Then they probably helped the attack on the Divine, as unlikely as that is. What Leliana wants if for Jayla to find some lone wolf Warden in the Hinterlands.

Because they don’t have enough on their plate already. Still, she agrees, with a half-smile on her face, and heads for her lessons. Mughen and Talen are more than a little surprised to see her, however, when they see her completely herself – cheeky smiles and quick sniping replies, they do not go easy on her. Someone’s told them she has only five days until her first excursion into the field. Jayla comes away from her training with a bruised jaw, a throbbing sternum, and at least several dozen impressive cuts. Her mage trainers are next.

They are, as always, useless to her. But, this time, for flavor, Jayla takes the staff from Kleri. She does exactly as she’s told, threads her aura along the staff, lets the metal at the top focus it, and attempts to make a fireball. What she does – is make her staff explode into more splinters than she’s ever wanted to consider. They try something else after that, more magical theory, and just about half way through the lesson, her house mate shows up. He fluidly sits on the ground beside her, leaning in to read over her shoulder. The noise he makes could rival Cassandra’s impressive ‘this is ridiculous’ noise.

“Your magic will not conform to these spells yet. You have to start smaller.” The book is taken from her hands, there is angry conversation over their heads and Solas just – ignores it. Jayla is pretty sure he’s her hero right now.

“I want you to reach out toward me, cup your palms together as if you were attempting to scoop water.” Sharp eyes watch her as she does so, and Jayla is struck with a thought that this might be easier now she’s got Action helping her as well.

“Summon water. Imagine it filling your hands, but not leaking from them. Hold it until I tell you to freeze it.”

Or not. This was not going to be easier. But, she tries, her eyes close, she thinks about dancing, and – well it might have worked if people weren’t still bickering. Her nose scrunches, brow furrows, and she does…nothing. Nothing happens.  The young woman wants to kick and scream at her trainers to shut the hell up. However, that would be counterproductive to her efforts. She’s hella certain that no one is going to stop attacking her because she can’t cast.  

So, she keeps at it. Tries to find her zen and make the water happen. She tries for an hour before angry tears start to well. She can cast tire, and not real fire, but ask for water and she’s useless? What kind of bullshit is this? Dark eyes are staring so hard at her empty hands she doesn’t notice when Solas moves, kneeling behind her and settling his hands on either side of hers.

He does that thing again, where his aura slides into hers, it makes her shiver, a full body sort of thing. Dimly she hears him tell her to find her center – and buddy, she knows where _that_ is. Currently way too into his voice in her ear. But, again, instructions. Her eyes close, she gets all comfy up in her own head – and his magic slips into her – in her, in her and her eyes fly open. He guides it into her hands, and water fills them. His aura recedes and he tells her to do it.

The water happens in about twenty seconds. Jayla practically dances in her seat, excited to have done what she’d been told to. The other trainers dismiss themselves for the rest of the lesson, while Solas and Jayla sit across from one another, summoning water and creating ice. Two hours, and Jayla drags herself to Josie’s office. Drags herself all the way up to the frigging chantry for Josephine to tell her the history lessons are over for the time being and for her to study her combat.

Jayla goes to get lunch instead.


	9. Three Glasses Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric tries to help Jayla loosen up. It goes a little too well.

She’s drunk, three drinks and the little Princess is drunk. Varric didn’t think it was possible for a woman to get drunk that quickly. Then again, he was used to drinking with people like Isabella, Aveline, and Merrill, women who had lived in Thedas forever, and knew that the beer was cleaner than the water was. Solas was going to murder him. It was almost the end of the week, and Varric had thought that maybe the kid needed a little break. Her combat instructors had been drilling her even harder than they had in the three weeks previous. Jayla was just one big bruise.

Not to mention, the kid couldn’t piss without her Templars going with her. It stressed her out. She was starting to act out, to antagonize her Templars and unfortunately, Curly. Isabella hadn’t even made Curly blush and rant like Princess did.  Firebug has been dancing at night. He’d thought it was a rumor, some half assed attempt to tarnish her reputation. Then, he’d gone out to just check, to validate or prove the rumor false once and for all.

Firebug danced. She danced like he’s never seen or even imagined before.  It was pretty, if you were into women who were two foot taller than you and brimming with magic and anger. For Varric the dances are – novel, interesting to see the shape of, to remember for writing later. He’d laughed to himself when he saw Chuckles watching over her. It was more accurate to say the elf was pinning her Templars to the ground with his eyes alone. And Curly? Curly would watch her, he would get uncomfortable, and he’d do what men did – ignore her or try to get her to hate him.

Curly wasn’t a bad guy, a little scarred, a little scared, but not a bad guy. So it doesn’t surprise Varric at all that he takes a bad guy roll in Jayla’s life. Cullen thinks she’s pretty. He doesn’t know what to do with that information, he doesn’t know how to handle her as a person so he makes her hate him. Not that it was hard. Curly had fucked up early on. No Mage would be keen to spend time with a Templar that dropped them to the ground like he had the herald.

But none of that is really important right now. Right now, Varric has a lap full of giggling young woman. He doesn’t know how to handle this. She isn’t pawing at him or doing anything remotely sexual, but she’s sitting on his lap, and there are gentlemen sitting with them. Every time she laughs Varric gets a face full of tit. Not that she’s got bad ones, but really, he’s not interested.

“Princess, we better get you home.” He’s had enough as she hugs him to her bosom. There is a lot Varric can take, but this feels wrong. Firebug – she’s like a kid sister. He does not want to know his kid sister’s bosoms.

“Noooo, it’s fun here! I want to stay, to play with the guys. This game is fun.” What game? This guessing thing? The how long does it take for a girl to get a clue they want to drag her into a dark corner and see how holy she really is? Yeah, he’s not letting her stick around for that game. Solas would kill him, Cassandra would kill him. Fuck, _he_ would kill him.

“You can play it tomorrow, Firebug. Come on, up, up. You’re going to miss your appointment with Solas.” He invokes the elder mages name like a prayer. If anything he’s hoping it will make her fixate on getting back to Solas. What happens is the fade mage comes as if he is summoned. The thin bulk of the man fills the Singing Maiden’s stair case and those accusing eyes focus on Jayla in seconds.

And doesn’t Firebug just screech a welcome at him? Because of course she will, she’s drunk, and Solas is apparently one of her favorite people.

“Ha’hren!” Varric doesn’t know where she learned that. It makes Solas look like he’s been struck by lightning, though, and that’s a sight he’s going to remember for years. He looks uncomfortable, the bald elder mage. Especially when Jayla jolts up, wobbling on her legs and bounces at him, arms out like she wants a hug.

“Come here, ha’hren! We’re playing a game. You’re good at games and I want to play with you.”

Andraste’s flaming tits. Varric eyes the guys, who are silent, and looking for an out. Yeah, this was going to be awkward as hell. Solas is looking at him questioningly and Varric can only shrug. How was he going to explain it? There was no explaining it.

The kid looks like she’s ready to start walking to Solas when a fire is lit under the bald man’s ass. He crosses over to the table, and actually gives the girl a hug. Chuckles willingly touches and engages in intimate contact with Princess. If the Fade weren’t already leaking into the world Varric would swear the apocalypse was on them.

“Where did you learn that word, da’len? Mughen?” He murmurs the question, on arm around the girl’s shoulders while hers circled his waist. She was all affection and he was just – Solas. Varric will never understand the game they’re playing.

“Mm hm.” Her face nuzzles, _nuzzles_ into Solas’ tunic. It makes his ears go red, not pink, red. Yeah, this game of theirs is something Varric isn’t going to touch with a thirty-foot pole. Not if his life depended on it. That was going to go badly. Broody elves had a way of breaking hearts. Ask him how he knew.

“How much has she had to drink.” Solas’ voice is soft, no accusation in the tone, which – that’s not normal, the hand on the back of Jayla’s shoulder fisted in the fabric. Apparently, she’s starting to nuzzle a little more than is appropriate. He’s holding her just a touch away from his body.

“Three. That’s it. I thought she was handling it fine, but that kid has not been drinking very long. Looking back I should have known. She always opts for juices or milk if it’s available, tea when she has to wake up and nurses wine like it’s precious.” He puts a thick fingered hand on his face and rubs at himself. He should have known. Solas just snorts, eyes dancing in a very eerie fashion.

“She’ll learn her lesson in the morning, I’m sure. Mughen and Talen are diligent teachers, and I haven’t any tonics to relieve the nausea this will likely cause her. Tell Flissa we won’t be in for breakfast, will you?” And just like that, Baldy has Jayla over his shoulder. The girl whoops and laughs, like it’s the greatest joke she’s ever heard. Varric just shakes his head, watching Solas carry her through the Tavern. That was going to be a good story in the morning. He wonders how many versions of it there will be.


	10. Getting to it Takes Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jayla is finally leaving for the Hinterlands, but before she goes she wants to try and settle some things.

The week moves faster than Jayla thought it would. She goes to lessons, learns things that are useful to her in them, and practices when she’s able to. Solas and Kleri taught her to summon a ‘proper’ barrier, one that stayed tight to the person’s skin. He stood guard as she danced each night. He scolded her when she dared to brazenly dance in front of the chantry, by the fire in front of the Left Hand’s tent. They fell into an easy routine, her bed making them lose half a day rearranging the cottage so there wasn’t any dead space. She doesn’t tell Solas she sleeps better with him at her back. He says nothing to a similar effect. They achieve a working relationship, after a month of knowing one another. Knowing of one another.

In the Fade, Solas watches as Action teaches Jayla control, dazzles her with little hideaways he’d established within the Fade. The remnants of days when the Fade had been one with the waking world. Together the Spirit and the Man learned that Jayla was a truly soft soul. They learned she had never taken a life, never had to. She’d hurt people before, to save herself, but she never said how the incidents occurred. They delight in her simple happiness when her personal brand of magic becomes easier and easier for her to cast. They puzzle about the way she pulls energy from everything around her but people.  Thankfully, there are no nightmares to save her from.

Today, it is a busy day. They must pack for the road, she has to nail down what it is exactly that needs to be done in the Hinterlands, and she has to wash clothes again. Her hair needs to be maintained as well. Right now, she is languishing in another War Council. Her head is beginning to ache. The same problems, the same lack of solution. She is so tired of this. She sighs loudly, garnering her advisor’s attention.

“We’re beating dead horses, my friends. Our priorities are to find Mother Giselle and have the scouts escort her back to Haven. We have to find the Warden, and procure horses for the Inquisition, yes?” A relieved look crosses her face when they all agree. She could and will work through these main tasks, and deal with whatever else there needed to be done to stabilize the region. Her hand taps at the markers for new places on the map.

“We need to reply to Xenon, and secure passage so we can utilize the shop. Cullen, please set your soldiers to that. Leliana, have Harding head to the Mire the moment she returns with Mother Giselle. Josephine, I suppose, call in some contacts that can clear us a path to give us a foothold in the Storm Coast. Take your time, there’s a lot to do while I’m gone. I don’t want to come back in a month or more and find we’re still at square one, however. We’ve got to hit this hard, and keep running with it.”

They chorus a soft “yes, Herald” before she is waving them all out of the room, there is an air of amusement hanging around the three women. They are the first out, save Jayla, and seeing the opportunity for what it is, the girl snags the Commander’s sleeve before he can leave. “Commander, may I have a work?”

She sees the way he pauses, how he looks for a way to refuse politely before sighing and putting on a tight, but cordial, smile. “Of course, Herald. What is it you need of me?”

Her fingers unfurl from the sleeve, and she nods pointedly at the door. Jayla is going to get yelled at for this. If not by Solas, then someone else, probably Action. Likely Action he was a worrier that one. Power plays with men twice your size and the ability to put you on the ground with a look wasn’t the smartest thing. Jayla, however, is going to do this, and she’s gonna ride – walk - off into the sunset tomorrow, either beaten down or having come out on top. Those were the only two ways this was going to go. So, when Cullen stares at her, brow furrowed, as if trying to figure out if she’d really just told him to close the door, Jayla stands tall. For a ballerina, she’s a bit on the tall side, pushing five foot seven inches. Cullen, well, he’s got some height on her. But, somehow, she gets him to close the door.

“What do you want, Jayla.” He says her name like it’s a curse and the woman standing in front of him isn’t sure if she should be proud or offended. She must have gotten under his skin royally this week. Good.

“I want to know if you and I are going to continue to be at odds.” Blunt, to the point, he had to appreciate that. If he doesn’t well, fuck it. She’s doing her best here. Her eyes scrutinize him, watching as his jay presses shut, teeth probably grinding, the muscle on the right side of his jaw jumping. His hands settle on the pommel of his sword and Jayla just keeps looking at him. The silence stretches out. Jayla isn’t playing this game.

“Commander Rutherford, I believe I asked you a question.” God, she is regretting this, but it’s started, it’s happening, she’ll see it through. Cullen might smack her around, worst case scenario. Best case – he screams down the Chantry at her.

“I am aware you spoke, Herald. I am attempting how best to answer you. But, as you require an expedient answer – it is likely that we will be at odds. You are an untrained apostate, you are a heathen who at every turn does her best to display her lack of faith while representing a Relig-“

“Ohhh kay, I’m gonna stop you there. The Inquisition? Not religiously based, I was here, I know this. Yeah, the Divine made it happen, but we aren’t a part of the Chantry, they’ve already condemned us. So, stuff that. Heathen? That’s fucking rude. I may not ascribe to any religion you know, but I have my own kind of faith. I tell anyone within hearing distance that I am not some divinely touched prophet. So, stuff that too. Every mage here is an apostate, made so by the Templars and their abuse, by the Chantry and the sanctioning of that abuse. I’ve been reading, both sides, every side. It sickens me. So yeah, I am an apostate, and I am being trained. I’m not an idiot, Rutherford, I know leaving myself untrained is dangerous. So – do better. Why do we have a problem? Why will we continue to have one?” Jayla starts to pace around the table. Her eyes are sharp in the candle light and Cullen keeps her in his gaze at all times. For a slip of a woman, Jayla can be rather intimidating.

“You think there is more to it? Besides you being a liability to our cause?”

“I am the lynch pin in your cause, motherfucker.” Her teeth are bared in a fierce snarl, hands slamming down onto the map table. “I am learning! I am not even from this goddamn planet, and you have the gall to call me a liability? I could be cowering in a fucking cabin, demanding to be protected at all times. By rights, I should be. I wasn’t a fucking soldier in my world, I was a college student, I was a dancer. I didn’t do shit like I do here. I had a nice apartment, I made a fairly good amount of money, my dream was within reach, and then I got pulled into this hellhole. So, put it in perspective Ser Knight. Am I a liability or am I some poor bastard doing the best she can with what she’s got?”

“You almost burned your cabin to the ground!”

“You near fucking killed me.”

“You dance like a heathen, and dress like a whore in front of the Chantry.” Ah, and there it is. Jayla gets it now. She thinks she gets it. She’s going to take a shot in the dark here.

“I turn you on when I dance. I’ve seen your red face. I know you come and watch, Commander. Is that the problem? Hm? Tell the pretty little Herald what’s got you all tied up in knots.”  She’s half laying across the table, her best come hither stare aimed at the soldier. She even pitches her voice for him, raspy, inviting, low like she wants him.

Of the things that Jayla expects, Cullen swearing rather vividly at her and walking from the room in a huff is not even on the top ten. Him attacking her, that had been on the list. Him actually getting his head out of his ass was on the list. It makes her shake her head, and push away from the table. Whatever, they’d squash this shit later. She needs to pack. Her steps are soft as she leaves the War Room, and curses a blue streak when her guards take up on either side of her. She hadn’t even gotten to request them being removed from duty. Fuck it all.

The cabin door shuts heavily, but it’s not slammed. She and Solas, they shared space well together. The place was rearranged, bed on either side of the window, closer than either would like, but it was that or beside the fire, the desk has been shoved into the dark corner of the room. Their trunks are against eh wall the door resides on. He’s got his staff hanging on the wall, her knives go off to the side of it. He doesn’t look up from his work as she rounds the corner.

“Did you speak with the Commander?” His voice washes over her like a soothing balm. A voice like that, it’s got to be illegal. Too calming, too sexy. She’s in deep when it comes to Solas’ voice. She’d run off with Solas’ voice. Focus. F o c u s.

“After a fashion,” it’s the verbal equivalent of a shrug as she pulls out the pack she’d been ‘issued’. Her armor is carefully folded in the bottom of her large trunk. That, she would be wearing in the morning. She still needs to wash the laundry. Damn it. Requisite smalls, her shoes – because she will not leave those – are shoved into the pack. Her toiletries, first aid items, a bed roll strapped to the bottom with a sad looking pillow.  She’ll collect food rations in the morning. Laundry, her hair, hmmm.

“What do you mean, after a fashion, da’len?” Solas sounds suspicious as he turns and watches his young cabin mate pack. She’s remarkably fast about it, the essentials in the pack without much of fuss. Those deep dark eyes shift to his, just a for a few breaths before she sighs, setting the pack on her bed and gathering up their piles of dirtied clothing.

“I called him on the bullshit, he called me a whore, I called him on liking it.” Her shoulders hitch, and there isn’t an ounce of shame in her. “He’s still working it out in his head. Whatever, I don’t have time to wait for him to get on with it. I still have tweedle dee and tweedled dumb because he didn’t stick around long enough for me to get to that. I’m washing our clothes, then washing myself, I need to re-twist my locs before we leave, or I’ll come back and have to cut them off. Which I’m sorry, war or no war, I am not cutting my hair off.” Jayla is already walking to the door. Solas’ heavy sigh and soft short bark of laugher follow her out. He’s learned that sometimes, you had to pick very carefully the battles you even started with Jayla. This is clearly one to let play out all on its own.

The trip to the inn to get the washboard is quick, quicker still is the walk to the lake. It’s quick work to smash the ice enough to get water into the bucket that came with the board. Add in the harsh soap, clothes, and scrub like life depended on it. That’s exactly what Jayla did. She’d done laundry twice this week already, cleaning both her clothes and Solas’. Payment for letting her stay in his house, and for him teaching her what she really needed to learn. And as a thank you for the days she’d worn his things. It’s a wonder rumors haven’t started yet, now that Jayla thinks about it. How many times has that man carried her through camp now? Too many to be decent by this place’s standards, that much has to be true. Not that Jayla needs to deal with rumors. Less rumors forever please. Opinions are bad enough.

Her scrubbing is ruthless as she goes back over the rather lack luster conversation with the Commander. She – likely – could have gone about it better. Jayla’s never been particularly good with confrontation. Solas, him she can and will duke it out over just about anything. Which, doesn’t make any sense. Comfort level should not equate how ready you are to scream at a person.

Her clothes have seen better days. She plucks a string carefully, sighing when part of the sleeve unravels. Maybe she’d hit up that guy Seggrit near the gate, he might have some cloth, or in the Crossroads? There had to be somewhere to find cloth or clothing. She shoves it back into the water anyway, washing the hell out of it before wringing the hell out of everything that’s now clean. She’s never missed a washing machine more in her life. Maybe if she draws out the design for a hand crank one the boys in the forge could make it? Wishful thinking but it might be worth a shot. Later, though. When the Hinterlands was taken care off.

Bucket set to the side, Jayla calls up the warmth of fire. Not the fire itself, she did _not_ need to owe Solas two outfits, and wills it into the fabric. In seconds the clothes are steaming, and within a minute, all of it is bone dry. This magic? This is magic Jayla can get behind. Bundling the clean stuff up, she takes it and the bucket back; heading first to her cabin with the clothes, setting them on Solas’ bed, and then heading to the Tavern. Couple of coppers and she’s in a hot as hell bath. Her hair is scrubbed within an inch of its life, and she would kill for some hair based oils. Sadly, there are none in the Singing Maiden. So, she’ll have to go without until they find some place that sold luxury items. And hopefully, by that point, Jayla will have earnt some money.

Trudging back to the Cabin, rations snatched on the way up from the Mess tent, Jayla finishes up packing the bag, noticing Solas had folded their things. It’s a companionable silence that fills the cabin. The only noise really is their breathing, the occasional turn of a page, and scratch of a quill. Jayla hasn’t gotten a hand on the writing here, but hasn’t told a damn person about it. So long as no one was sending her letters (and honestly who would?) she will be fine. Absolutely fine. And illiterate. It’s awful. She’s too prideful to say anything though.

“Are you ready for the morning?” Solas had at some point, turned toward Jayla, watching her finish her pack up, pulling the straps securely through their buckles. It makes her jump, eyes wide when she looks at him.

“Jesus, Solas. Yes. All set, rations, extra under, er, smalls, first aid items, the whole shebang.” Her smile is lopsided, halfhearted. “You don’t think I could fit in another dance practice tonight, do you?”

His expression is contemplative, soft, it’s so strange to see that look aimed at her, but she’s seen it a couple times now. It makes her hopeful he’ll say yes. After all, when is she going to be able to dance while they’re knee deep in starting to save people? Never, that’s when. So, she puts on her best puppy eyes attempting to further soften the elder mage. All it does is make his ears twitch and his eyes laugh.

“I don’t think it would be wise tonight, da’len. We’ve got quite a way to walk, and you will need your energy for it.” Jayla’s puppy eyes morph into exasperation. She flops onto her bed, face down, her pack gently crashing to the floor. Solas simply chuckles, watching as she flails awkwardly in protest.

“Ugh! Solas, that’s so dumb. You’re such a _dad_. I get up at dawn every single day, and I dance half the night away. What makes tonight any different?” It’s not as if she’s asking permission, but then she sort of is. If he didn’t come with her, then she’d be subject to the scrutiny of her tin cans. Which, fine. Except, Solas’ presence sort of dissuades them from doing anything. She doesn’t _assume_ they would molest her. She does assume they won’t hesitate to slap her with a smite if they got antsy.

“Yes, and you’ve lost weight since starting that routine, you may not notice it, but in another week, you will. Your eyes have bruises under them, dark circles. Your actions have consequences. I cannot in good conscience allow you to dance tonight.” He says it so offhandedly that Jayla thinks she might have misheard him.

But no, she didn’t, her hearing isn’t that terrible and she isn’t half across the chantry either. Her eyes narrow as she sits up, a scowl starting on her lovely face. Solas doesn’t notice, not until she speaks. “Sorry, did you say allow?”

A heavy sigh is her response, his eyes rolling before he turns back to his work. “I will not have this argument with you Jayla. You know what was meant, even if the wording offends.”

This, this is how she knew Solas was different. She could easily get into gear for a confrontation. He said something dumb, she called him on it. She did something stupid – well shit hit the fan with him. Growling under her breath, rather put out now, Jayla grabs a small jar of pomade that had cost her a pretty silver, starting to twist her hair. She doesn’t have nor need a mirror, doesn’t need one for this. She’s had her dreads since she was ten. Her mother had taught her how to care for them, and she’d done it ever since.

The silence returns to the cabin, interrupted only by the scratch of Solas’ quill. It takes the woman a good two hours to finish separating and twisting her new growth into the already established pattern of her dreads. To most it will seem like a frivolous effort. To Jayla – it’s essential. No way was she letting her kinky curly hair out in an afro. Not here. Not when she knows she’s going to go into skirmishes and who knows what else. She’d had enough trouble getting demon ichor out of her hair. No thanks.

“Shall I bring you some supper? The sixth bell has rung.” Solas breaks her from her concentration, one of her silver adornments in her hand. She’d been taking them off, warned by Leliana they would catch the light and alert people to her location.

“If you like.” Her answer is noncommittal. She’s not terribly hungry. Too miffed to be any sort of way.  She watches as he leaves. When the door closes, she returns to removing her ornaments. She folds them in a cloth for safe keeping, tucking them the bottom of her clothing trunk.  She takes the time to shove her clothes off ready for sleep, burrowing into her covers. While they lived together, the most Solas has seen of her are her legs and hips. That’s all he was going to see too.

She’s dozing by the time her Elven house mate returns. He’s got a couple of bowls of soup in hand, half a loaf of bread, tankards hanging from his hip and a bottle of cider in a pack. It’s all set out on the desk when he makes it through the door. The girl is only roused long enough to eat her soup and bread before setting the bowl to the side and promptly returning to sleep. Privately Solas feels his point has been made. Jayla was up too late, and up again too early.

Hopefully being on the road would break her of the habit.

Morning dawns on Haven, and Jayla is the first person awake. She takes the time to sponge herself off, confident that Solas will be asleep for a while yet. The sun hasn’t even started to rise, night is still ebbing away, black giving way to navy blue in the sky, that ever-present tear making things green tinged. Her armor makes her pause. This is the second time she will be wearing the gear. The first time was when it had been delivered from the forge. Jayla had gone down to thank Harritt, while learning what he did for the Inquisition.

Now she drags her fingers over it. It was better made than anything she’d worn back home. Manufactured clothing had flaws, many of them. Hand sewn goods, like this, they cost a pretty penny. It was why she’d learned to sew and how to bedazzle. A girl needed costumes, and when you were on a tight budget, things still had to get done.

Shaking her head as she hears the elder man snuffle, his face pressing against his pillow, the herald pulls on her leather breeches. Her shirt is linen, but the vest over top is leather as well, her coat is leather, the arms have metal pauldrons, metal down the arms over top of the leather as well. Her boots, they’re simple, leather as well, all matching, but the bits that go over top of the boots, all the way to her knees, take her time to buckle properly. By the time Solas has woken himself up, Jayla is shouldering her pack, favoring him with a wan smile before going to the tavern.

Breakfast with Varric is a quiet affair, tea, warm biscuits with heavy butter and preserve of some sort their main dish. There is, as always, oatmeal of some variety. Jayla avoids that right up until she can’t anymore and shovels it into her mouth. It sits like lead in her stomach, but better to be full than hungry.

They meet with the soldiers, Cassandra and Solas after one last check through of their bags by the stables. No one is particularly talkative. Josephine, Leliana and Cullen are there to see them off. Cullen barely acknowledges Jayla, giving her a firm nod without meeting her eyes. She doesn’t even care at this moment. Josephine gives her best wishes, Leliana tells her to watch her back.

The road, the walking, the silence, her fucking Templars – it makes Jayla itch. She’d like nothing more than to run into the nearest field and just keep running. Or maybe frolic. Or hide. All sound like good options to her. However, she stays her course. It’s a boring course. But that’s good. Boring meant no one was dying or in need of saving – yet. She can only hope that it will stay this way until they hit the first camp in the hinterlands. She’s worried about the first fight. Terrified of it.

Her companions notice how their young Herald begins to hunch in on herself the higher the sun climbs and the farther they get from Haven. No one knows how to ask her what’s going on. She’s got a volatile temper at best, and seems to only enjoy speaking with Varric, Solas, and Leliana. Josephine as well, but the fact remained, she didn’t encourage conversation. They are walking through the noon hour when Cassandra has finally had enough.

“Lady Shepard,” she takes several quick strides, coming level with the power walking ballerina. “Is everything alright?”

“Jayla, Cassandra or nothing at all, please.” Umber eyes light on the brunette beside her and she shrugs her shoulders. “Everything is fine, I just want to get there and get this started. We put this off long enough because I was basically useless to you all. I don’t want to waste another moment. We have people to take care of.”  It’s an artful dodge to the question, answering it with misdirection. Not actually telling anyone how she was feeling.

Varric is shaking his head behind the women, Solas watching with keen eyes. Two liars can spot a liar, especially Jayla’s, quite easily. Varric had spent the most time with the girl, but Solas lived with her now. He was picking things up. The conversation is stilted between the two brunettes, and tension begins to thread into the atmosphere around them, both worried to misstep.

“You – Do you believe in the Maker?” The question comes out of left field and has Jayla whipping her head up from where it had been bent to stare at the path.

“What?”

“The Maker, do you believe in him?” Jayla internally screams. Of all the questions to ask, why, oh why, did Cassandra have to go here of all places. They’d already touched on this, when Jayla had first tried to talk to her. Why was she pulling it back up and out into the light?

“Cassandra, you know I don’t. It’s – it’s complicated. I don’t even believe in the God I was raised to worship. If I can’t be true to that one, how could I ever claim to love or worship an adopted God?” Her voice is low, eyes moving around them, looking for listeners.

“You have been with us for some time now. I was curious to see if anything had changed. I still believe it was the Maker’s hand who guided you here, to us, in our greatest time of need.” The elder woman’s accent is thick, jaw set with conviction.

Jayla envied Cassandra her beliefs. She’d love to put everything in the hands of some all-seeing benevolent God. However, on Earth? None of the Gods seemed to be watching anymore, none of them seemed to be sympathetic to their parishioners’ plights. With so much war, and famine, destruction, racism. It was very, very hard to imagine some all father watching his many, many children. Here – it’s the same. The one thing so far that Jayla can see parallels her own world.

“I wish I could believe that, Cass. I truly do. I’ve – heard too much, seen too much at home, here, to believe anyone with the power to correct this is just sitting back and working through me. At home, you heard about murder almost daily, you hear about an atrocity being committed across the ocean, see pictures of children dead or dying, you hear about hate crimes. War and hate, they do the worst damage to the people I consider mine. Here? It’s the same. Shuffle around the names, the situations and I can parallel similar ones within my home city state. It’s wrong, for a God, if there is one, to watch as his people are raped, beaten, murdered, used as toys or tools. How can any God look at what is going on and let it be? Where is the miracle to show these people the way? It’s certainly not me, I can barely lead myself.” Her speech is impassioned, her worry shining through. Solas’ ears are laid back against his head, some of the things she’s said hitting too close to the heart for his comfort. Absent Gods indeed.

“Faith is not something that can heal all things, but it certainly helps to comfort those who are hurting, those who need direction within their life.” Cassandra is quietly floored by Jayla. Her assessment of things is – realistic. Often Cassandra found herself questioning things, but in the end, she returned to the Maker’s side. His chant was what guided her. His Divine the shepherdess they needed.

“Faith is a fickle mistress. It can leave the strongest of us faster than one could imagine. I’ve met men who were steadfast in their faith, only to leave it because of what has gone on behind the curtains. It makes it very hard for me, personally, to stick to the tenants of any worship. Not when so many people have left so many versions of God.” Her hands ruffle through her hair, pulling it up as she walks and speaks, deftly tying it with a leather thong high on the crown of her head. “I don’t say these things to shake you, Cassandra. I envy you your faith, and wish I could find something to believe in so unwaveringly.” Her hands fall to her sides, returning within moments to the straps of her pack.

“If we come out of all this alive, having found some proof of a Maker, I will tell you I was wrong, Seeker. I do not expect the same in return if we survive and find no proof. I wouldn’t – I don’t want to see you lose your heart.”

Solas watches the interaction carefully. For all that the two women, do not agree at all on their faith, he can see the seeds of friendship forming. Cassandra respects Jayla, is curious about her, enough so to bring up topics well known to cause rifts between even the best of friends. The silence that falls between them is different this time. There is no awkwardness, just quiet contemplation. Both women had given one another quite a bit to think about.

In the end, Cassandra calls a halt a dusk. A camp is put up in record time, with the Templars stationing their tent directly next to the one Cassandra is teaching Jayla to assemble. It makes the girl’s hair stand on end. She doesn’t want them within a hundred feet of her sleeping basically alone. Cassandra was one woman, that didn’t exactly provide her much in the way of protection. Jayla stays silent, focusing on learning how to put together tents. That was the important thing to learn right now. Getting camp up was going to be a big part of her life for a while.

Varric leaves them with two other scouts, seeking out fresh meat for dinner. Though they had rations a plenty, it would be nice to indulge in fresh while they could, before fires would alert those near to their position. The requisitions officer and a friend take it upon themselves to find wild root vegetables and herbs while the others hunt. It leaves the rest with setting the fire up, and placing wards. Cassandra is the one to go for firewood, Solas pulling Jayla with him to the edge of their camp.

“It is time you learn to set wards, da’len.” His voice is soft, cadence even. Jayla blinks rapidly at the notion. Wards, her? Set wards for these people? Was he asking for them all to get shanked in their sleep? She barely forms a barrier for herself properly and he wants her to ward a whole camp.

“Solas, this might not be the best idea.” Her voice trembles, low enough only he can hear it. His eyes slide to her, watching from the corner of his eye. She looks nervous, has done all day, but now, more so.

“It will be fine, I will be casting with you. Now, what sort of runes should we weave together?”

Jayla wants to pull her hair out. Her mind races through the books she’s carefully read. “An alarm, perhaps fifty to one hundred feet away, so we’ve time if something comes upon us. Something to ward off wildlife, to detect humanlike people, one to diminish scent and sound leaving the warded area. Protection, obviously as well.”

She is so hesitant. Solas thought he might have to pull it from her like one would a tooth. But, she comes through. It’s a sloppy design, it would leave quite a few holes for things to sneak through. He doesn’t want to tell her she’s half right, but he cannot afford to do any less.

“Almost, here, stand in front of me.” The look he receives makes him chuckle, raising a brow at her. “Do you think I will do some untoward thing? Come here, I will show you how to do this, and what you were missing in your explanation.”

The dark girl, so dark, so very pretty in the rising moonlight, does not look convinced. However, she does as bid. He instructs her to leave herself loose, ready to move. That makes her tense for a moment, but she rolls her shoulders, shakes her arms and lets herself be loose. When he thinks she’s comfortable, Solas steps up behind her, grasping her hands, threading their fingers together and lifts them. He keeps his hold on her tight, and starts to draw the runes into where the camp’s border will set.

“Demons, I didn’t think to ward for demons.” She sighs it in frustration the moment he starts to draw the glyph. He breathes it into being, threading power into it carefully, feeling her do an echo of the same.

“You did forget demons, but most of it was right. Now, we’ve the first part of the weave ready, waiting. Close your eyes, feel how this is done.” He keeps himself away from her ears, speaking from behind her. It would be unprofessional to encroach on her space more than he already has.

“You are the weirdest teacher,” the murmur heralds her eyes being closed. Solas uses their hands to draw another glyph into the air, “feel how this is done, rely on your own sense of magic da’len.”

For a second, Jayla has no idea what he’s trying to make her see. There is darkness, she can feel the breath of air and earth under her, then he exhales, and she spots green…something, moving to her left. Her head shifts, tracks the stuff, and watches how the glyph flairs to life. It makes her jerk, a sharp breath making the chest behind her vibrate with laughter. Silent, but there. That sneak.

It takes a few moments, but she notices the very wall like structure before her. Deep teal edging on an eggplant tone. Their personal magics fused, the first, very patchy, piece of the ward. “How do I weave it?”

“Here,” he shows her, rather than explains it to her, more green magic floating from over her shoulder. She mimics what she’d done earlier, breaths out, threads magic along it, watches as it twists with Solas’ and settles into the glyph. She watches as Solas guides this part of the spell into the first, threading it into the holes.

It’s twenty minutes before Jayla opens her eyes again, feeling giddy. It had been fascinating to see magic. With her eyes open she doesn’t see it, but she can feel it, a gentle pressure against her skin because she is so close to it. Solas unthreads their fingers and takes a step back from her. Turning, Jayla bounces on her toes, a bright smile on her face. “That was amazing. Thank you.”

Her teacher waves off the thanks, and indicates they should return to the fire. “You had to learn, did you not? This was the best way to do so. Theory, speaking about magic will only take a person so far in this life. You’ve a knack for feeling magic, I have noticed the more I show you, the easier it is for you to accomplish the same task.”

It wasn’t a lie. Action and Solas had noticed Jayla did better with her lessons when there were physical examples put before her. She far preferred her own way of doing magic, but she was progressing nicely with instruction in Thedosian magics. They watched nightly as she summoned fire, turned water to ice, grew vines from the dirt, and called stones to her from across clearings. Yes, it was within the fade, but she took that practice out into her lessons in the waking world. They were more than pleased to see her other tutors catch on to how far behind Jayla was.

Of course, there were questioning looks, murmurs of speculation, but none that went back to Jayla. A good thing, the questioning of the Herald’s origin would only make a hard situation harder for the lot of them. Solas prowls the edge of camp, nodding to the scouts as they return, arms full of cleaned root veggies, one with a hefty skin of water at their hip. He sees them engage the Herald and smiles slightly.

It’s the first time in a long time that Jayla is asked to help cook. She did most of her own cooking at home, not that eating ‘raw’ foods can be considered cooking. Salads, fruits, soups, that was what she ate most often. Carbs came from her veggies, protein was limited, fats limited just as drastically. It wasn’t the ideal diet, not by a long shot, but, it did help her to stay in shape between semesters and audition cycles. Now, here, she’s going to get chubby. Too much hearty food, too much bread that calls her name.

No bread tonight, thankfully. The requisition officer shows her how to peel the vegetables, teaching (re-teaching) her the names for things. By the time Varric comes back, several fennec slung over his shoulder, the stew base is ready to go. Jayla congratulates herself for not gagging when Varric insists on showing her how to skin and dress the game. It doesn’t mean she isn’t running for the stream the moment the task is done, but she does make it all the way through before having to clean up. Laughter follows her, the gentle clank of armor follows her.

The days getting to the outskirts camp are slow, but filled with lessons. Varric makes her help him every night with the game, she goes to search out tubers and roots, helps to set the wards. Her tents are a little wobbly when she puts them up, but Jayla is at least learning. She can’t ask for more right now. However, on the fourth day, when the camp comes into view, she feels fear take hold of her. When they got into that camp, when it was set properly, they would have to go find Mother Giselle, which meant fighting. It meant killing. She wasn’t ready for that, not by a long shot.

Her feet propel her forward, while her heart tries to get her to turn tail and head back to Haven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jayla can't live without poking the bear. Poor Cullen, I keep planning for them to actually get this shit fixed, and it never writes that way. The conversation with Cassandra hit me by surprise, I wasn't planning on anything like that happening. Bandits, sure. Deep conversations? Nah. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy the double whammy update today! xo


	11. Bloodied hands; Broken Hearts

It’s not as awful as she thought it was. The camp is silent, the view idyllic, this doesn’t look like an area rife with fighting. Stepping into the scouts, Jayla meets Scout Harding for the first time. She’s very quickly disenchanted with the whole encounter.

“The Herald of Andraste! I’ve heard the stories, everyone has. We know what you did at the Breach.” At least the Scout didn’t look enamored or in awe of Jayla. That is a small blessing for the young woman who calls a half assed smile onto her face. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Everyone’s a little nervous about Mages, but, you’ll get no back talk here, that’s a promise. Inquisition Scout Harding, at your service. I, _all_ of us here, will do whatever we can to help.”

Well, okay. Jayla can work with that at least. She opens her mouth, but Varric beats her to it. “Harding, huh? Ever been to Kirkwall’s Hightown?” He’s clearly hoping that the lovely dwarven scout has. Jayla narrows her eyes, she knows why. He’s told her, she’s sure of it, what about Hightown? Ugh. Too much information not enough time for it all to sink in.

“I can’t say I have,” Harding looks as confused as Jayla feels. A quick look at her company, however, and Cassandra at least, knows what’s going on. “Why?”

“You’ll be Harding in High- “her rogue friend seems to catch himself, shaking his head, the light going out of his eyes just a touch. “No – never mind.” The sound that Cassandra lets loose is impressive. But, honestly, the woman did protest his presence too much.

“Y’know, I’m starting to wonder about these stories.” She’d been locked up in Haven for a month learning how to person, how to mage, so what the hell kind of stories were being shared around? Dark eyes squint over at Varric questioningly, and don’t let up when he mouths “what” at her.

“Oh, there’s nothing to worry about. They only say that you’re the last great hope for Thedas.” Deadpan, completely serious. Fuck a duck.

“Lovely. Good to know.” Shit these people were in for a rude awakening. “The Hinterlands is as good a place as any to start fixing things,” Harding gets right into it, pleasantries over. Jayla can dig that. Or would if it didn’t mean she was very close to going careening into danger. The dreaded woman really hopes this place has some kind of anxiety relief or she might go mad before this is all over and done with. She can already feel the nasty little fingers poking into her chest.

Talking to Harding is over too quickly, and Jayla hovers as the Camp is made. The Requisition officer gives her an order, and well, that’s that. She’s got to get going. God she’s going to vomit and they haven’t even done anything yet.

“Okay. Let’s do this thing.” Her voice is stronger than she feels, but the quaver in it is noticeable. Varric and Solas watch her with concern, while Cassandra nods and takes the lead. Thank the Maker, or God, or Jesus, or the goddamned Spaghetti monster because Jayla isn’t in the best of places to do this. She follows silently into the field, barely noticing the fennec and rams running around them. She’s resolutely looking at the dirt when the tang of battle magic soaks into her awareness.

“Shit.” Apostates and Templars on the ridge in front of them. Cassandra has taken off, and all the Herald can do is follow. This was it. This was the first fight. Spirits help her. A barrier falls on her skin, tight, strong – Solas, and Jayla pulls the veil around her. She went for the Templar nearest her, jogging up behind him will drawing her daggers.

She doesn’t want to do this. This is wrong. It’s murder. They were all murdering each other. But, this is what she’s got to do. It isn’t like she can just –

Fire blasts her out of her veiled hiding spot, driving the breath out of her with the force of it. The barrier had kept her from burning, but fuck. That hurt. She has time for a breath before the clank of boots hits her ears and she’s scrambling to her feet. Plate armor, a big ass shield and sharp ass sword, are coming for her. It’s a dance, make a whip of light and smack at him with it, dodge, veil, strike and hit plate, dodge, get caught on the shoulder with his blade, veil to zip behind him, ice him in place and - and put the dagger in his neck.

Jayla hasn’t ever used that kind of force before. She’d gone for the back of the neck rather than the side, afraid she’d miss. She hadn’t, all her weight went behind the strike and she felt the skin break, the cartilage and bone shift when the blade separates them. A gargle, his weight is pulling her down and she reels back, blade bloodied, shock hitting her.

She killed a man. Her hands had put the knife between helm and cuirass and – and. Someone yells her name, Jayla’s head snaps up, and a man barrels into her from the back. Adrenalin surges, as if she wasn’t swimming in it already, and she’s fighting. Kicking, slashing, freeing herself as quickly as she can. An apostate is scrambling up behind her. Low on mana apparently, working with a sword. Eyes wild.

This was a child. A teenager. Her heart leaps into her throat, she tries to get out of this one. “Stop, stop I won’t hurt you. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to stop the – “

“Liar!” The apostate charges and she is forced to dance away, dodge, roll, keep the kid in her sights. Jayla can’t attack him. She can’t. He was scared. He was a kid. The others haven’t noticed, she could save this one. Just one. She only needs to not kill one person today. Two is too many.

“Please, just listen! We aren’t the enemy, I’m with the Inquisition.” Her pleas go unheard, the wild attacks keep coming and she keeps dodging around the field. Dipping away from the other vanguard Templars who are focused on Cassandra. The other mage – was she down already? Had she already been cut down? Had she been frightened too? A child too?

Ice shoots up her back, makes her scream with how cold it is. Its enough that the kid in front of her can get a good cut across her stomach. Not deep enough for it to be fatal, but it isn’t good either. Fight. She has to fight. Pain drives her, fear keeps her moving. The ice burns but it also breaks off her armor as he shrouds herself.

When her dagger drives up into his ribs, she cries. She bears him to the ground right there, blood running down her arm, dagger still in him and cries. The clash of metal on metal, the tang of magic in the air, it settles around her. This is dangerous. If there are any left. She can’t make herself move. Can’t remove the dagger. Can’t deal with this.

“Princess? Shit. Princess, come on, you gotta let him go.” Varric’s hands on her face make her suck in a breath she didn’t know she’d needed. Her sobs verge on wails and though she lets go of the dagger, the other long forgotten, she won’t let the corpse go.

It’s irrational. This was war, wasn’t it? This had to be done, didn’t it? He would have killed her, he tried, the pain in her stomach is proof of that. Jayla registers Solas being called for. The world tips sideways for a moment, and gauntleted hands pull the body away from her.

“Maker’s blood, Jayla.” Varric is swearing, hands on her shoulders. “Solas get over here! She’s bleeding, stomach wound.”

She doesn’t care. She wants to curl up and die. “V-varric.”

“Princess, hey. Hey you’re with me, it’s over.” His eyes are bright with panic, brown and green swirling together with little fleck of gold. Pretty if she were thinking that way.

“I – I killed him. I killed a – a – kid. V-varric.” She manages to spit the words out between sobs, and can’t catch her breath. It’s too much, this is beyond her capability. Different hands on her face, turning her roughly to the left. Blue eyes, freckles, worry. Green magic at her face, makes her sleepy. The girl’s eyes fall shut as Solas puts her to sleep to heal her.

Varric looks and feels shaken. He’d seen her take on the Templar, he’d given her cover fire, not that she had noticed. The dwarven rogue didn’t expect her, and he was careful to shoot where she wouldn’t be. But damn, he’d been proud when she took the Templar down. A clean kill, that was more than anyone could ask for a first kill.

And then, the apostate came at her. His eyes shift to the heap of kid with a dagger in his lung. Wide eyes still scared are staring at nothing. Varric swears and turns away, away from Jayla, from the kid, from what they were doing. Princess was made for this and her heart was too soft. She moved well, and she’d be great one day, her magic was far more controlled though she had barely used it. But that heart, he’d never been as worried as when he saw her go down with the apostate practically draped across her.

He didn’t think she’d go to pieces like this. Jayla had balls of brass, he’d seen her dance in front of the Chantry half naked not even a week ago, watched the way she trained even when she was ready to – and eventually did – pass out. That woman in Haven wasn’t the girl he saw today.

“The wound is healed, she won’t carry a scar from it.” Solas sounds wrecked. Princess is settled on the ground in front of him, and the man looks pale as death. Cassandra, silent ever watchful, her eyes are glassy. They were all a mess. This was a mess.

“She – she did well. She will learn, as we all did.” The Seeker’s pronouncement is soft, but firm. Her blade is sheathed, and she gather’s Jayla’s daggers. “Get her up, Solas. The day is not over yet.”

The crossroads is worse. They are all watching Jayla with half an eye. It’s like watching someone under thrall move. Her movements are jerky, no fluidity to them. She barely dodges half the time, Solas is doing double time with the barriers. It’s a shit show from start to finish. The Herald is covered in blood – and bits. She’d used some strange lightning spell to propel herself into the air, and then fried two Templars until they kind of exploded. When she lands, she’s shaking. It’s not over and she keeps moving.

When the battle was over, this melt down was going to be worse, if possible.

She throws fire, and cringes visibly when the screams start. Twice she lands on mines that blow her ass over tea kettle yards and yards away from them. There is a cut on her forehead, when she stands up, and Jayla does stand. That almost – fade step is employed, and fuck if she doesn’t use the momentum to plant a knife in an apostate’s gut.

Varric feels ill watching her. He can’t even begin to think what’s happening in her mind. Shock was still firmly gripping her, though. That is obvious, adrenaline, shock, fight or flight, it’s like her body’s been taken over and just moving as it needs. Thankfully, this battle ends quickly, not as quickly as the one in the outskirts, but it isn’t drawn out.

The shaken woman comes to them, and it looks like she’s just come off a three day lyrium bender. Everything shakes, she scrubs at her lips with the back of her hand only to almost retch when she finds her hand still covered in blood. To the storyteller, she looks ready to cut and run. He doesn’t blame her.

“Where’s the Mother?” Her voice is, shit, he can’t even describe it. He can’t accurately describe her as she shakily shoves the daggers in their holders. The dead look in her eyes. It’s not right. He can’t look at her.

Solas’ hands are tight on his staff as he watches the girl from another world attempt to do what she was brought here to do. Her question is addressed to Cassandra. The Seeker, a woman forged by fire, replies quietly, and leads the Herald toward the remaining intact town. The spirit-bound lets out a harsh breath when they are out of hearing distance.

“What are we doing to that girl, Chuckles?” Varric’s voice tremors, rage behind it. A month, they’d had her a month and kept themselves wrapped in a bubble. No one had thought about it. Demons versus humans. It is always easier to kill a thing that isn’t Human, Dwarven, Qunari or Elf. To witness a spirit so fierce crumble so hard.

“I don’t know, Varric. I just hope we don’t twist her spirit in the process.” He is so tired, and feels thousands of years older than he is.

 ***

“There are mages here, who can heal your wounds, lie still.” The Chantry Mother’s voice is calm, quiet – soothing. Jayla can at least acknowledge that as she walks up the stairs of the makeshift hospital. The soldier is terrified, face white with pain and fear.

“Don’t – don’t let them touch me, mother. Their magic –“

“Is turned to noble purpose. Their magic is surely no more evil than your blade.” The words make Jayla flinch violently. She was doubly damned, a mage with bloody hands and bloodied blades. Her chest hurts, throbs sharply with anxiety edging on out right panic as the soldier attempts protest. “Hush dear boy, allow them to ease your suffering.”

Just like that, she’s gotten the man to lay back, the healer able to do his work. Jayla’s feet propel her forward, her mouth and voice work. She won’t remember the conversation later.  The walk to the outskirts camp is tense. Jayla’s eyes run all over the wide expanse of land around them. Her hands twitch, her breathing is shallow. No one says anything, though Varric and Solas stick closer to her than usual.

Delivering the Mother to the scouts goes without a hitch. They are off as the sun moves past the noon hour mark. It’s then Solas approaches the Herald. His hand lights on her shoulder, heart dropping when she jerks away with a little gasp.

“Apologies. I wanted to check on you, Jayla.” His eyes are sad as he looks at her. It makes her sag and feel defeated. Had she done it all wrong? Didn’t she get the information from Mother Giselle? Didn’t she fight? Hadn’t they… won?

“I’m fine, Solas.” Her voice cracks, breaks and it draws the attention of several remaining scouts. Her shaking doesn’t abate, but Jayla draws herself up as best as she can. “I over extended my mana, that’s all. I – “ _I want to go home, I want to go to sleep and never wake up. I wish this was a dream._ “I need a bath.” The words are meek, but her head doesn’t droop forward to hang. Jayla meets Solas’ eyes and doesn’t bend.

Not yet. This was just like Haven. Just like after she’d burnt the cabin. She couldn’t show any fear, any weakness or people would doubt. They would lose faith in the organization. Heavy clanking steps draw up behind her, it makes her take a step toward Solas, eyes blowing wide, dilating to pin pricks.

“My lady, there is a river, we will escort you.” It’s the first time one of the Templar have spoken to her. They hadn’t made a sound during the battle, they hadn’t hesitated either. Jayla had hardly been able to comprehend, but when she looks – their armor is blood spattered.

“I-I,”

“Da’len, I can go with you.” Solas’ voice is pitched low, his presence closer than it had been just moments earlier. “It would be best, perhaps, if we all went. These hills are still rife with rogues on either side.” Those words are said louder, and she almost cries in relief. Almost, but doesn’t.

The river is an awkward affair. Not for Jayla, who desperately strips down to her underwear and walks in like it’s a life line, but to those who have to watch her break down just a little bit. The soap in her hands is rubbed roughly over her skin, into her hair. She’s shaking, the water isn’t warm, it’s barely spring, but she doesn’t leave. Her skin is red and her teeth chatting before Cassandra leads her out, helps her dress in clean leggings and tunic. The jacket makes her flinch, but Jayla puts it on anyway.

Night falls before they make it back to camp. It is a blessing and a curse to see the Herald crawl into her tent with one of her Templars sitting against its farthest post. She doesn’t eat, and doesn’t come out. Varric looks ready to break and Cassandra pokes at her food.

“What do we do? She has been trained for this. She knew it would be a war.” Her words are worried, hollow sounding. “She cannot break every time we come against men and women.”

“She is only a girl, Seeker.” Solas’ voice is ragged, eyes riveted to the tent into which Jayla disappeared. “She didn’t live a life that ever saw violence such as this. She did not perpetrate it. The Herald –“

“Princess is too soft, too young, and too inexperienced for this.” Varric’s words have a harsh edge to them as he pins the Seeker with hard eyes. “We could see that on the mountain. To this point, that girl hasn’t broken. She should have. The body at the mines? It should have had her screaming. The demons? She should have been running. Jayla is holding it all in, because that’s what we basically told her to do. Roderick wanted her in jail, she was scared shitless, couldn’t speak the language, couldn’t fight, and you – we. Hell. All of us have been walking with wool over our eyes. She’s a powder keg.”

It’s silent until Jayla starts to scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This hurt to write. It probably is awful, but it's done and we can all move onto the next battle. Maybe it'll hurt her less.


	12. Nightmares

The dream had started easily enough. Jayla was at home, a lazy day, nerd day. She was playing Destiny, all her carbs and sugar for the month spread out before her. No work, no practice, no audition. Just her, her laundry, her video games. Bliss. Her Sunbreaker Titan was finally at max light level after months of work, and she was kicking ass in the battlegrounds.

She’s happily chattering away on her headset, reaching to get a snack while waiting for the spark to charge, hidden away in the best strategic place to become a spark runner. Delicious chips and dip. Queso. Real queso not the store-bought shit. But it doesn’t taste right. Her eyes dart to the bowl and she screams, practically vaulting over her couch in her terror.

It was blood. Just a bowl of blood and she’d eaten it. Fuck. Holy shit. Holy _fuck_.  It’s like a bad scene out of a worse horror movie. But her mind is running with it. The lights go out, her t.v. goes fuzzy and Jayla shoves herself into a corner of the room. Her eyes close, she breathes shallowly, waiting. There is no sound, she can’t feel anyone standing over her, she’s sweating like a pig, hands damp, thighs and feet damp, but there’s nothing attacking her. It was … safe?

Her eyes flutter open, squint, and the screams start without her permission. Bodies. Children. Oh, sweet Circe, she’s covered in -  in. Jayla tries to get it off her, the blood, the other matter than she won’t think about, won’t name, won’t look at. The blood is _warm_ the metallic odor thick on her tongue and in her nose. Her attempt to remove it only smears it up her arms down her legs.

“No, no, no, no, no,” she chants it like it will make the scene remove itself. When her brain clicks on, Jayla lurches to her feet, she picks her way, shaking, through the carnage. She tries not to look at the girls and boys that are charred, the teenagers with their throats slit, wounds gaping, bones visible. It makes her stomach turn and her heart aches.  It doesn’t get any better for her.  It’s like this place never ends. She can’t get away from the death and the bodies.

“Oh, darling. Shh. Shhhh.” Gentle hands settle on her stomach, a body pressing against her back effectively putting a stop to her movement. “It’s all right, dearest. Shhh. Stop your tears. I can make it all go away, I can help you, take away the pain.” The voice is low, lips at her ear. The dark woman feels – wrong, but not afraid.

“W-what do you mean?”

“I’ll stop your pain. You murdered that boy, that Templar, several. It makes you feel awful.” The fingers lift from her stomach, snap, and the battle is back. It is everywhere around them. All Jayla feels is terror and rage. Her skin pulses with magic that isn’t her own and blades, arrows, magic bites into her skin. What is happening? This wasn’t how it went -!

“Not for you, dearest. This isn’t how it went for you. But for the boy? This is what he felt. Can you feel his fear? Can you hear his thoughts?”

_Oh maker. She’s going to kill me. I shouldn’t have left the circle, I was safe there. She’s with a Seeker. She won’t keep me alive. They’ll kill me. I have to get away, I have to survive. She’s not fighting me. I can kill her…_

“Stop! Stop it!” Jayla pulls herself away from the hands, or tries to. They curl into her stomach and pull her back. She yelps in pain, struggling more.

“Why do you try to get away, dearest? You asked what I meant, I showed you. This is the pain you want to be rid of, isn’t it? You can’t tell me that I am wrong. This makes you feel – helpless, like a monster, unclean and unnatural. It turns your stomach to know you took a _child’s_ life and the life of a man who might have had a family.”

“STOP!” She hangs from spirit – demon’s hold, tired, terrified, resigned. She was a monster. She had killed. The blood, the corpses, her fault.

“I can make it stop hurting. I can make it so you never feel like this again… Just let me in, da’len.”

Da’len? The word makes her breath catch in her throat, eyes squeezing shut. Solas called her that. What did it mean? It was wrong coming out of the demon behind her. She struggles feebly, she needs help. Help because she feels sluggish, hits aren’t half as hard as they should be. “Let me go! No. NO, get out – get away from me. ACTION!” She hollers for all she’s worth and cries when the fingers dig into her. It won’t let her go.

 

Jayla’s screams are shrill and send the camp into chaos. Solas all but wrecks the tent to get to her, ears laid against his head as she continues to shriek. Her eyes are open, milk white and unseeing. The Templars are the ones who do destroy the tent to get to her, swords drawn and tearing into the canvas. Solas barks at them to leave her be. If it was a nightmare she’d wake. If it was – if it was a demon, he would find her. They couldn’t afford to lose her. He wouldn’t let her life end like that.

His fears – of a demon trying to take her – have Action leaving him, the feeling little more than a shiver. His spirit leaves as the tunic covering her tears. Ten holes, all on her stomach, her body curls in on itself, tears on her face.

“No, no, no, no.” Her words are shriek, pained, so mournful it tugs at everyone witnessing this. The scouts leave the camp, setting up a bigger perimeter. Varric and Cassandra get between Jayla, Solas, and the Templars. Their face are white, but neither waver from their guard.

Solas hopes Action reaches Jayla first as he curls himself around her, closes his eyes to will himself to sleep and into her dream. He slips into the Fade, but Jayla’s mind – it’s not the beacon it was usual. He can hear her cries, the waking world echoing strongly here, but can’t find her. It’s worse than when she was unconscious for those three days as the Breach expanded.

He runs, looking for her mind, her dream. It shouldn’t be this hard to do. They’ve shared so many dreams now. He hears her yell Stop, he feels when the dream attacks her waking body. The second time such a thing has happened. It isn’t – this shouldn’t be happening to her.

“Jayla!” He calls her mind to his, speaks her name to add weight to it. Action howls his frustration from deeper memories. Whatever had her – it knew to hide, it was old. Solas keeps looking, follows Action to deeper places in the fade, places they would both ignore. It made Solas’ skin crawl and Action tossed his head restlessly. They searched, and searched and finally –  she yelled for them.

The joining is instantaneous and they are running. They can feel her now, they know where she is. Bound still, fighting, in pain they can hear her. Thank the spirits. The dream is – it’s a horror show. Children, teenagers, Templars. The demon had capitalized on her trauma – a nightmare demon at her back, old. Older than they expected, but wary enough of them, their power, to let her go. It is momentary, the shock that allows her to fall onto the bloody floor of the dream and try to crawl away. It grabs her by the hair seconds later and they fly into motion, action. They were going to rip the demon’s throat out.

To say Cassandra was relieved when Jayla gasped like she had just been underwater, sitting up with her eyes their normal deep brown is an understatement. The Seeker has lived a long life, she’s seen and perpetrated death in many forms. But, to hear Jayla scream like that. It made her feel ill and unstable. Her body turns toward the Herald as Solas wakes.

“Da’len. Jayla. Look at me.” His arms that had been around her waist don’t leave the girl who breathes heavily while shaking, but he does turn her toward him, hands glowing with creation magic. He heals the shallow wounds of her stomach as he speaks to her. “Da’len, speak to me. Please, I couldn’t find you, your mind – “

“Action found me.” Her voice is hoarse, eyes brighter than they should be as her hands make fists with Solas’ tunic caught him them. “He saved me. It was – It. It said I – “

“You aren’t. Whatever it told you it was a lie. It wanted your body, your magic, so it did whatever it could to try to make you fearful enough to let it in. You fought, you were strong.” His eyes dart to the Templars, both men frowning deeply, swords still drawn. He is beyond grateful, relieved that Cassandra is between them, that Varric is standing with her. As much as he still does not trust Cassandra as far as he might be able to throw her in regards to himself, he trusts her to keep Jayla safe.

“I – I have to make sure, Jayla.” His voice is almost a whisper, rage and guilt coloring each word. Her head drops forward, against his shoulder. This world was terrible. It was awful. She just – she wanted to go _home_.

“Do it. Whatever you need to do. Just – do it.” Her words are heavy with resignation, loud enough for everyone to hear.  Her head doesn’t move from his shoulder, drained emotionally, still tired physically. She doesn’t twitch as one of his arms unravels from her waist, and places it on her chest. He hesitates for a moment, and then his aura shoves into her.

The pained yell breaks his heart; prompting him to pull away with his aura in the same breath. Solas doesn’t hesitate to hug her. It was – awkward, but he can’t care about that right now. Can’t care about his discomfort with her pressed against him intimately where others can see it. This act – it’s for her. She needed comfort. He would give it to her, he owed it to Jayla to be her rock right to the moment they succeeded or she didn’t need him anymore.

“Are your worries satisfied, gentlemen?” His hands bring Jayla closer, curling around her without thinking as he looks to her Templars. The men, he hadn’t given them much thought, past not trusting them near Jayla. Looking at them now, with their helmets off and swords out, he feels his quiet rage bubble to boiling in his stomach. For all they are men, they are beasts. Ready to strike down the one woman who could save them.

“Yes, ser. That is sufficient to disprove possession.” The younger of the men thumps his arm against his chest – the Inquisitions bow, as he speaks. The elder does not, eyes heavy on the pair of mages. Neither retreat and neither attack, small mercies.

They are still beasts, but well trained at least. Standing, Solas hoists Jayla into his arms. Walks to one of the intact tents far from the Templars and ducks inside to lay the exhausted Herald down. Her hands won’t disengage from his tunic. “Da’len, you need to let go. I will come back – we will ward the tent.”

His words are soft as he pries her hands from him, leaving the tent as quickly as he had come. The camp is silent, the night is still young. Solas breaths deeply, swallowing before he looks at his companions. The Templars are both gone, likely in the tent. Varric, he looks as if he’s aged fifty years in the last half hour. Cassandra – she stands tall, as ever, if paler and more drawn.

“We will ward the camps each night. I was remiss in not having set a ward already. Jayla will stay with me tonight. Tomorrow – Tomorrow we will continue, if we can. She is fragile, this has – destroyed a part of her.” To mend it, if they could, could take years. The wreckage of her dream, that the Nightmare could have pulled her so far away, shrouded her so completely to a spirit that had bound to her, even superficially was worrying. Solas rubs at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“We have to carry her and support her until we’ve garnered enough of a reputation to address the clerics that the Mother spoke of. Ideally, Jayla will adapt to the realities of this war. If she can’t – we will need to find a work around and quickly. This won’t work if her mind breaks under the strain of what she is doing.” Wresting control of the situation was not Solas’ intent. However, with Jayla as she was, someone had to. Action would let him do no less. Their mistake, they would fix it or help to, as much as they were able.  That does not alleviate the feeling of having usurped the Herald, however, and he stalks off to set wards around the camp. It goes faster than when he let the younger mage help him, and that bothers the spirit-bound man. He all but runs back to their tent, and throws wards along the walls of the shared sleeping space before ducking out yet again, despite murmured protests, to get her things.

When they are settled, or as close to considering what’s transpired, small hands reach for him. She’s tentative, her hands still tremor, but she reaches for him, and he moves toward her. The dark woman is wrapped in his arms without a word, without protest. He lets her cry herself back to sleep and this time, Action is already waiting for her, already carrying her to a safe place when Solas sinks into the dream after her.

Morning inevitably comes, dragging Jayla from the safety that is Action’s presence. The camp is quiet, the light not enough to come through the sides or top of the thick tent. Solas’ breathing is even, arms tight around her, his head buried against the back of her neck. It’s peaceful. So much so she can imagine they are back in Haven, that she didn’t – that yesterday had not happened. It helps, a little. Haven was home base, safe, Solas had kept her safe after she stopped avoiding him. This was safe.

“Your mind is loud, Jayla.” His sleep filled voice makes her smile. It’s a little sad, she barely gives a thought to how attractive it sounds behind her. That wasn’t important anymore. That he was awake and still holding her – that is important.

“I’m sorry. For – when I,” he abruptly cuts her off, a habit she’d like to break him of. “No, Da’len there is no apology for yesterday or last night. Not from you to any of us. Yesterday was painful, it hurt you. We had not readied you for the realities of this places, though we knew and know you had never seen violence like this. It’s us who should apologize, and I do. I am sorry for not warding your tent or the camp.”

“It’s okay. We make mistakes, dude.” She pats at his arm with her hand. “I could have done the same thing. I mean, shit, you taught me how. This – I wish the girl who’d had the mark originally survived. It’s selfish, but I bet she would have been able to do this. She wouldn’t be falling apart right now.”  Her tone is low, not wanting the whole camp to hear her.

“Da’len, you can’t know that. This is not an easy path to walk, but it is yours. We will help you, carry you if we must, until you find your feet.” A rather upsetting announcement in Jayla’s opinion. There was no escaping this. His arms retreat as he sits up, rubbing sleep from his eyes with a yawn. She opts to stay on her side, staring at the red canvas of the tent. Carried until she either dealt or broke. Gods.

Sitting up dejectedly after an indeterminate span of silence, Jayla tosses her hair into a bun. Deal or break. That’s what she had to do. There are people in the town who needed help. She’d flaked yesterday. She’d probably flake again today, but, Solas made a point, again. Or drove home one she’d already expressed in her head. This wasn’t going to be easy – but she had people to lean on. Jayla just hopes she doesn’t have to lean too often.

They crawl from the tent squinting in the early morning light. There are a few scouts awake, milling around the campfire. The guards are trading out, last watch going to sleep for a while. No one says a word to the Fade expert or their Herald. Chatter picks up little by little. Jayla speaks with the requisition officer while Solas helps with making breakfast. Something almost resembling porridge but not quite. It was too thin to be actual porridge. The dancer isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or bad. Still, she forces it down, tilting her head when Varric plops down on a log beside her half way through her bowl.

“You okay, kid?” His eyes have dark circles under them. The storyteller looks like hell. Jayla feels guilt wash over her. He’d seen her little episode, that made two times now she’d had a mental vacation in his general vicinity. Poor fucker.

“No. I won’t be for a while, but we have work to do. I’ll deal with my shit later.” Honesty was the way to go with this. If she did crack, Jayla didn’t want anyone to wonder if they could have seen it coming. She’d lay out a welcome mat instead. Leave a trail of bread crumbs. It was only right if they had to deal with her.

Cassandra walks up from the direction of the river, her hair is wet, eyes zooming in on the younger woman. There aren’t any words exchanged, just a hand clapping on the mage’s shoulder. It’s a fast breakfast, all things considered. Packs are shoved onto backs and weapons are strapped on. Day two was about to commence. May the spirits watch and guide them away from danger, may they keep the path clear.

***

Things in the Crossroads were remarkably normal for having just been the scene of a battle between three different factions. There are farmers with carts trying to sell their food, a man with a cart full of all sorts of odds and ends. Not a one saw Jayla and didn’t bow to her, thanking her for her work.

She feels a little weird being thanked for – that. Not to mention the bowing. It wasn’t. She wasn’t. In the end the dark woman just shakes her head, a half smile on her lips for those who approach her. A hunter mentions people are going hungry at midmorning. Moments later a man is seen near the street asking for a healer for his wife. The crossroads healer has either gone or died, they needed a new one. Three small things to do for the town. Jayla and her group immediately set off to fill bellies.

“So. This is relaxing.” Varric can’t stand the silence as Jayla tracks a Ram and tosses a bolt of lightning at it. He’s sighting his own prey and Bianca fires unerringly as she always does. Jayla has to electrocute the ram again before it falls.

“I guess. If you’d have told me a month ago, I’d be killing rams for towns people I’d have looked at you like you were crazy. However, this is a far, far better thing to be doing.” A silent ‘rather than killing people’ hangs in the air. Varric makes no comment, but nods his head sharply.

“Let’s see who can kill the most rams by the end of the day, hm?” A challenge. They were asked for ten, but ten would only take the town into the weekend. They likely wouldn’t be able to find the Templars or the apostates that quickly. Getting more seems like a good idea.

“Are there stakes?” Her arms tingle with energy as she eyes another ram. This one is rather docile, eating embrium and staring down the road at them. When she flings magic this time, it is in the form of an iridescent arrow. The arrow hits the ram in the side, and again, she’s got to throw more magic. That was two for her one for him. One for each of them to carry back.

“Cass! Ram time.” The resulting ‘ugh’ makes her smile. This, today, she almost feels normal. Which helps. She feels like she is back in Haven and – oh! She could hunt there, make money or trade for food with Flissa. Varric’s chubby but not actually chubby finger prods her in the ribs and makes her jerk. “Ah! Watch those finger’s bub.”

“Stakes, you wanted to know about possible winnings?” His smug grin has her rolling her eyes at him. It went a long way to hide Varric still being worried over Jayla as well.

“Yeah. Might as well make this interesting if we’re going to do it, right?” Her eyes narrow, focused on her ram, it’s not the best way to carry it, _but_ she’s not strong enough to haul the whole damn thing. Bones made stock, so it’s not as if she was going to leave bits of ram everywhere just to carry back meat. Plus, liver was hearty, the intestines could be used as sausage casing, the heart could be eaten, stomach could be used as a water skin. Thank you, high school indigenous history class. The carcass lifts after a few moments of narrowed eyes.

“Hmm. Stakes. Loser has to do the hunting on the way back to Haven when we’re done here.” A simple ‘reward’ for the winner of their little contest. Varric is confident in his abilities, and Princess looks like this makes her feel a little less horrible. He’d hunt with her all goddamn day if that made her eyes sparkle again.

“Seems fair.” Her smile is a little vacant, but the dwarven rogue assumes it’s because she’s lifting somewhere near three hundred pounds of animal with her mind. Varric fully expected to half drag hers back along with his. But, now that she’s agreed to the terms and she’s got the ram up in the air, he trots off to grab his, they set out for the Crossroads quietly.

At least until solas shows up with a ram slung over his shoulders and a half dozen fennecs on his belt. That makes them all falter a little. “Uh. Solas. There’s a ram, on your shoulders.”

“I see your eyesight is as keen as ever, da’len.” Princes gets that infuriated look of affection on her face. She gestures at him wildly and then at herself.

“You – you’re not even that much bulkier than I am! You’re a _mage_. How.”

“I am not as old or as feeble as you apparently view me. I will likely be tired of hauling ram by the noon hour, but until then, I am more than willing and capable of hauling like this.” Solas’ voice has taken on a cool edge. Princess looks irritated and rather reprimanded. Huh.

“Sorry. I don’t know that your old or young or what.” She’s huffing, starting to speed up to walk with Cassandra. The kid isn’t waiting for Chuckles to answer her. They’ve got a strange friendship. Or is it mentor mentee relationship? They’re odd point blank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. Nightmares. They never make sense and always scare the shit out of you. She hasn't given up yet! There is hope for our lovely Herald.


	13. Valor Only Wanes a Moment

Unfortunately for everyone involved, the way back to the town is not clear of dissenters. A group of Magi is the first they meet. It goes – very poorly. Jayla is nearly killed twice, unable to bring herself to grab her daggers or use more than defensive magic. Her right side is heavily burned, armor useless now, and she’s got a cut that almost bisects her face. The other three are relatively unharmed, though Solas looks ready to immolate the whole bloody region and be done with it. If she hadn’t had her Templar near – it would have been much worse. It marks the first-time Jayla is glad for their presence, and the first time Solas doesn’t pin the pair of them with a glare.

He is not a spirit healer, not by any stretch of the imagination, and knows only the most effective battle healing spells. They will leave Jayla with scars, and the very idea of her with scars is abhorrent to him. Still, he repairs her as much as he can, pulling his off his coat to very carefully cover her as he picks her up, burned side facing away from him. She is lucky the burning didn’t go up to her neck, though, luck doesn’t seem to be on their side. The Templar take over hauling the ram, and Solas takes Jayla to the mages in the Crossroads. There was one spirit healer there, recently recruited to the Inquisition, hopefully she was still there.

Cassandra and Varric manage to skirt around three groups of Templars to make it back into the town. Solas had edged around burnt out buildings to avoid taking the main path. It’s clear when they drop the four rams and meet the Fade mage they were going to have to take care of the Templars and Apostates sooner rather than later.

“We can’t keep running into these deserters. Princess is gonna get killed if we don’t give her a little more time to deal.” Varric has a bottle of something, very quickly draining it outside the Field Healer’s cabin. He offers it to the other two silently. Cassandra, rather surprisingly, takes it making a face when she’s had a long drink of it.

“That tastes like garbage.” The Seeker still offers it to their bald apostate and he doesn’t even hesitate. “We go while the Herald recovers. There were some who said the Apostates took refuge in the woods behind the Crossroads, that is where we start. The Templars will supplement.”

“We need to start looting the bodies. It’s distasteful, I’m sure, for agents of the Inquisition, but we need new armor for Jayla, and I very much doubt we will find anything nearing sufficient in the town.” Solas’ suggestion is sound. Equipment and gold were more help than just the people’s gratitude. It was – unfortunate but necessary. It makes Varric chortle lowly.

“Hawke always said his favorite part was the looting. Guess that’s going to be our line now.” This black mood hanging over them wasn’t doing anyone any favors. Making an impatient noise, Varric gets the bottle of dragon’s piss back from Solas. He drains it, leaving it on the steps and sighs. “Let’s get this done before someone notices the Herald isn’t with us.”

The day turns from bad to worse. There is a rip in the veil in the witch woods and of course the group stumbles upon it. The terror demons there, tall, gangly, green, stick bugs with teeth for days, catch sight of them. A Templar is lost. The remaining, surprisingly, is the one to take the armor and personal items. They burn him, Cassandra and the remaining nameless Templar praying over the pyre before they quickly move on.

Solas will remember the wild eyes and frantic spells of the Apostates within their strong hold for the rest of his days. Desperation pushed people to startling heights. These, they were feral, all too eager to grasp their freedom with both hands. But, they had no idea how to be free when they were being hunted. It turned them into little more than wild animals. They could have been saved, if only they would have listened.

It is a shameful waste of life, as every war is. Action sighs in his head. This was truly upsetting. The mages not be of the people; indeed, most are human, perhaps five elven, but they were kin, of sorts. Less empty than those without magic. These, at least, could feel the Fade, walk the Fade if they’d been trained to. Instead they were taught to fear it, avoid it. His teeth grind at the thoughts, hands pulling open pouches and unlacing salvageable armor before the corpses are piled on a pyre to be burned.

They bring twenty-seven staffs back to the crossroads, each of them laden with potions and miscellaneous other trinkets found on the bodies. There had been books as well, on this or that school of magic. It was a sobering affair. Solas is glad that Jayla didn’t see what they had done. Glad she didn’t see the stragglers get hunted through the forest, brought down like rabid wolves, looted and burned. The armor they did have was, adequate. It would get her through what they needed to get done.

 ****

“They’ve been gone for hours.” Jayla had been shuffled out of the Healer’s cabin dressed in a kindly old woman’s offering of a dress when her wounds were dealt with. New skin, tight, but not scarred covered her right side. The cut on her face – however, only parts of it had closed and healed properly. There was a new scar on her jaw, over the bridge of her nose.  It wasn’t great, to be honest, but she was alive. That was what counted. Sort of. She was sitting with the hunter. He’d been happy for the four rams. They were currently butchering and cleaning them.

“Girl, they won’t come back faster with you worrying after them. Careful with the intestines, if you get the rest of the Rams we need, we’ll make sausage for the winter.” There’s some hope in his voice now. Jayla is gladdened. Something she’d done, helped do, gave someone some hope. “Clean those bones and stick’em in the pot. We’ll have a soup tonight, it’ll stretch farther, and later when you lot get us more ram – “

“About that.” Jayla cuts him off, winces, and pauses, studiously not looking at her hands. “You need more than ten. Ten might get you through a week or two, but the whole town? We need to get you more than that at least until we deal with the Templars and Mages.”

The Hunter looks at her, eyes careful and serious. “You’re not wrong, Inquisition. Aren’t you a mage?”

“Yes.” Her brow lifts in question. “Problem?”

“No. You’re a good one –“

“We’re all good in the beginning. Try not to forget that.” Her voice is hard, eyes like flint. The conversation dies a quiet death as both the man and woman return to cleaning the rams. They work straight to the early afternoon, boiling the bones with bits of meat on them, throwing in some spices as well. They eat fruit for lunch, bleeding the rams a fair distance from the town, and get back to the third and fourth of the animals. Jayla is half way through gutting it when her party walks into the town. She only knows because there is cheering. It has her looking up, turning around, arm carefully balanced on her knee so blood won’t get on her dress.

“Where is she?” Cassandra looks a fright as she questions the Healer. She is looming, doing the thing she does where her face looks like a threat without saying the words. It’s kind of beautiful, if you’re attracted to women who can beat you to a pulp without breaking a sweat. Solas isn’t paying attention to her, not like Varric is at least, his eyes are on the towns people.

His eyesight, elf eyesight, is rumored to be twice as good as any human’s. Varric doesn’t particularly figure it’s true, but it seems true in Solas’ case. The elf starts walking after spotting something. Varric tries to keep Cassandra from verbally skewering the healer and alienating her. She was Inquisition now. He quietly reminds the Seeker of that.

Jayla is standing on the rise above the town proper, above the landmark they’d planted an Inquisition flag beside.  Her hands are bloody, skin clearly new – slightly lighter than the rest of her. Action isn’t satisfied to see her from that far away, and so they climb up to see her.

“Jayla. I see your wounds are healed.” His lips twitch into a slight smile, before narrowing at the scars on her jaw and nose. His hand lifts, aborting the movement halfway to her face. Her dark eyes settle on his hand and then slide to his face.

“Ah, yeah. I’ve been cleaning and butchering ram. There’ll be soup tonight. Tomorrow we’ll need to hunt again. I’m thinking we try for eight after we go to that cult in the hills. I checked in with the husband, got the wife to the Spirit Healer. The relief is temporary. Looks like an asthma attack, we’ll want to get the recipe from their kid.” She’s all business, eyes lit strangely. Solas knows better than to press the matter, however, and lets his hand fall to the side.

“Of course, I will tell Cassandra and Varric if you like, so you may continue with your task.” He looks tired, and he’s favoring his right side. Jayla narrows her eyes and steps into his bubble, hands flaring with golden light. There are bruises up and down his left side.

“What happened?” Her mouth is set into a firm line as she unceremoniously rucks up the shirt, looking at the mottled red and purple on his pale skin. Solas stamps down the urge to slap her hands away.

“Demons in the witch wood, apostates in the witch wood. We took care of them. We couldn’t – they were too great a threat to leave be.” There is remorse in his tone, but Jayla feels her heart stutter. Killed. They killed them. Her eyes close, she takes a deep breath. “You acted without me. You could have waited until I was awake.”

“And you could have walked into battle in a dress? That would be the height of stupidity, Jayla. You were injured, we needed to act.” He’s stating things so matter of fact. As if Jayla were unaware of the need to quell the unrest here.

“I’m supposed to be with you on these missions. I’m supposed to close the rifts. Do you think I’m that weak? I had a moment, Solas, just a moment earlier. I would have been –“

“You are in no condition to do this.” His voice feels like a slap. She grinds her teeth, and pushes her hand against his bruises, willing the healing spell to return the blood to its rightful places and fix the nerves that have been thrown for a loop or two.

“I can’t afford not to be. I was stupid today. I have the scars to prove it, the wonderful new skin to remind me. Don’t do it again, Solas. You are any of them. Who else is hurt?” Action is rather proud of their da’len. She was forcing herself to adapt. She looked extremely displeased with the idea, but needs must. He was aware of how it felt to do things you weren’t fond of. This time Solas’ hand cups her face, thumb tracing the nick on her nose bridge.

“Cassandra will be taking a few regeneration potions, Varric is fine. I’m afraid we lost a Templar, however.” Her face falls. She hadn’t liked her bookends, but by no means did that mean she wanted either of them dead!

“Did – is his body with you? We need to give him his rites. He shouldn’t be left in the woods as carrion.”

“We gave him his due. He had a pyre. Don’t worry yourself about it.” Those dark eyes look like fire when they lift back to his face.

“Don’t worry about it? Solas a man died because I was injured, too injured to do the one thing we’re supposed to focus on. By rights, both should have been with me. If they had been – both would be alive. Don’t tell me not to worry about it! I may not be in charge, but I’m responsible for how the Inquisition is viewed. Today, it was a fluke. They saw me as human, yes, weak. But I got back up and did some work around the town. So, we didn’t lose favor in their eyes. It **cannot** happen again.” Jayla doesn’t jerk out of his hold, but she turns her face away from his hand, takes a step out of his reach. That, surprisingly, hurts him. Hurts Action.

“You had just been half killed, da’len. We were all worried, we did what was needed. To wait, meant more than just us would have met the apostates on the road. The mages we fought, they wouldn’t listen to us, or stop attacking. They gave us no choice in this.” He lets his hand fall, face schooling into a detached sort of serenity. Jayla doesn’t much like it.

“It won’t happen again.” She says it with such finality, Solas could almost believe her. Almost.

“As you say, Herald.”

“All right,” She takes a deep breath and smiles as she huffs it out. “I’m going to go do some more butchering. The Hunter is giving me the leather for my troubles. We also need to provide twenty or so ram, it’ll help get them through the spring and until the situation has been completely resolved, maybe. So. Inform Cass and Varric will you? I – can I stay with you again tonight?”

“I will, and yes. I expect we will be staying together until you feel your words are strong enough to keep demons from your dreams. “It’s a touch selfish, to tell her that, to hobble her growth. By rights, she should be warding her own tent. Instead, he’ll keep her in his house, in his tent, making her rely on him. The soul-bound smiles, nodding to her before he goes to speak with the others.

Jayla returns to the hunter and her task. None of them see the Herald until nightfall, when she walks into camp with bundles of skins ready for tanning, and a package of meat. She’s quiet, they are quiet. The silence is uncomfortable, but the Herald cooks them dinner, passing portions of roasted meat to everyone present in camp. The rest is given to the soldiers who professed to know how to make jerky.

“Tomorrow, we are going to the fortress in the hills to get the potion for the woman in town. We’ll hunt on the way back, at least four rams, and then – Gods willing, we will go after the Templars. If not, if we’re held up, we go for the Warden.” She pokes at her meat while speaking. Afterward a cube of it is popped into her mouth and she chews silently.

“Sounds like a plan, Princess. This is good, by the way. You learn this back home?” He indicates the meat when her eyes land on him. She pauses her chewing, just for a moment and shakes her head.

“Nope. Hunter told me how to do it.” Her smile is wan, but there. It takes the anger out of her words. Anger that is blatant as she falls silent again. It makes everyone squirm. Jayla was usually so outspoken. It was no secret she’d given the Commander a dressing down before they’d left. He’d looked like someone had brought up every wrong he’d ever committed against mages. A dark cloud hung over him, and the scowl.

This? This is far worse. Solas had said that the Herald knew where they’d gone and done. That she had not been happy with them. Cassandra had assumed she would get it out of her system verbally. The Seeker hasn’t dealt with this sort of ‘punishment’ since she’d been a child. It grates on her in ways she’d long forgotten.

“Herald. We weren’t attempting –“

“Don’t, Cassandra. It’s not your fault. It’s mine after yesterday I would doubt my capabilities too. However, remember that it’s me supposedly leading these excursions. You three will not be galivanting off without me. That makes me look incompetent at best, incapable at worst. Your advisors made me a figurehead, so let me do my job.”

“Understood, Herald.”

Jayla passes her portion of food around to her companions, and the Templar before heading to Solas’ tent. By the time they are all done with their meal, she’s buried herself in her bedroll, dress folded ready for the next day. The elf cautiously disrobes and gets into his own bedroll. He says nothing when a small body slips in behind him and curls around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filler chapter is filler. Back to the trauma of murdering Templars and running through the wilderness to get what amounts to an inhaler. Rits will get saved, maybe. Elindra will get recruited, possibly. Things will happen!


	14. And it's off to the Cult we go!

Another night of practicing magic with Action. Solas attends, as usual, within Action. It doesn’t make sense to the spirit why his physical half doesn’t dream with their charge. He knows what’s in their head, knows exactly how the Herald affects them. Yet, Solas stays away. He denies himself a happiness, and makes due with believing he can only be the girl’s protector. Makes due, but steals moments like having her in their cabin, which is morally dodgy to the humans, and sleeping curled around each other in his tent; also, a morally suspect action!  The Wolf doesn’t understand it. They were walking a path of death – but Action had tied Jayla to it. She would be there when – if – they died. He shakes out his fur in irritation. Elves – Immortal elves – were not rational creatures when it came to mating. This one especially.

Every night Solas hid within him, even the night before, and watched as the wolf spoke with Jayla during her lessons. He listened as she told him about her home, never really delving into her personal life. He listened to her fears and hopes for closing the Breach and going home.

 “So, you’re saying my hammer trick is just manipulated inferno magic, and then my storm magic is a – a.”

“You perform the known schools of magic, da’len. You simply perform them in a way unknown to those here in Thedas. The base of the spell is the same, the form and power of it is not. Magic bends to the imagination when at its most basic instinctual level. You push too much mana into your spells still, and weaken your aura or magical pool, faster than you need to. Try to do your spells with half the mana, and see if that makes you less tired. They shouldn’t diminish in strength, but if they do, I believe your mortal teachers will be able to further guide you.” He is subtly reminding both their charge and his other half they have been neglectful in their practice. The warding of the camp had been good. She learned quickly, and likely would be able to have an airtight warding system memorized by the time they were done with their tasks in the Hinterlands.

But he wants to see her more proficient with her battle magic. Defensive spells weren’t going to keep her alive, evidently. Action shoves his snout against her stomach, relishes her little fingers digging into his fur.  “Now, we should go over casting forms, casting while moving. You do well for the most part, but you could be faster, better. Your body will only retain partial memory of what we practice here. You will need to start sparring and increasing your speed outside of the fade. I would not see you hurt, da’len.”

The girl flinches, pats his forehead with a sigh. “You saw that, didn’t you? Not just the nightmare – all of it. The battle, the death, my breakdown, today.”

“Yes.” He wouldn’t lie. He had seen it all, through his soul-bonded Elf’s eyes.

“Will I ever be able to kill a man and not feel like a murderer?” Her legs fold under her and she sits in front of him, dragging his head down with her.

“I cannot say, but I do not wish to see you hardened to death. Your kind heart is what makes you shine. Your compassionate soul makes you able to help, it fuels your mental discipline. It is likely you will become used to the death, but do not let it turn your heart black. Nothing in this war is worth losing your soul.” He licks at her face, settling his head in her lap.

“I’m terrified. I want to stay here with you and never wake up rather than go out there and wholesale murdering people. But, I know I can’t. I have to go out and do my duty until the breach is closed.” Her voice shakes, fingers digging into the fur of the Wolf without meaning to. He doesn’t shake her off or growl in warning. She was scared, he understood – abstractly, through Solas.

“Da’len, you are a woman who had, until a day or so ago, never killed anyone. Yet you walked into battle with your head on straight and the intent to see it through. That is the definition of bravery. Tomorrow it is likely you will meet bandits or Templars on the way to the apostate cult’s strong hold. Will you meet them blade for blade, or allow them to harm you?”

“If I die, no one can close the Breach. So, I can’t die. Which means, I can’t let what happened today happen again. I – I’ll do what I have to.” Her face looks pained and he wishes he had arms to envelope her like Solas did. Instead he licks her hand. She was a valorous little thing, he was right to name her such. She would break again, and again but she’d put herself back together again. Action can sense it. Porcelain mended with Silverite.

“Do not fret, da’panelan. Know in your heart that those you must kill give you little choice in the matter.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“It never does.”

They are silent for a time before Jayla stands up. Her face is set in grim determination as she takes several deep breaths. “All right. I need to cast against things that look like people. I need to go back to the memory I first met you in.” That dream, with the elf who wanted to kill her, it was as good a place as any to go and practice.

Solas and Action cringe, they were not taking her back to Arlathan forest during Andruil’s hunt. Jayla did not need to see how barbaric the Elves of old had been. Shame kept them from agreeing, though they do have an idea.  Something that will aid her and not take her back to their world.

“No, come with me. We will meet with Strength, Command, and Resolve. They will help you.” Standing, shaking out his fur, the great wolf waits until her hand buries in his fur, and they set out to find his spirit friends.

Walking beside Action, her hand buried in his fur, which wasn’t real fur, nothing was really anything here after all, was odd. His gait should be rather huge in comparison to Jayla’s, he stands taller than she does, her head only reaches where his ribcage is. He’s more horse than wolf in terms of height. She should be running to keep up with him, however, she isn’t at all. They keep pace with one another without an issue as they leave Action’s domain.

The Fade the space between dreams, it is mutable, green, always green. The changing landscape give her the sensation of nausea. It makes her shove her face against her wolf’s side more than once during their journey. He pauses once to lick at her face and ascertain she’s alright before continuing.

Strength and Command are easy to find. They reside in a castle that floats in the clouds. It awes her, makes Action laugh. Carrying her, because apparently, anything is possible here, he deposits her in the courtyard.

“Action. Who is this girl you’ve brought here?” Strength looks like a soldier, but she’s not seen armor like that within her limited travels. It’s got a leave motif on it, but lacks definitive color. It’s more streamlined, elegant than anything the Inquisition wears. Cullen’s armor with his lion’s head helm is clunky compared to this.

“I’m Jayla. Jayla Shepard.” She clings to them for just a moment before releasing Solas and Action, taking a step forward toward the present spirit. It doesn’t take long for another to show up. This one strides into her personal space, long ears and lack of armor a bit confusing.

“What are you here for Jayla Shepard, what would you have of Command?” The tone brooks no argument but it also makes the girl recoil in agitation. She was far from pleased at someone demanding information about her.

“Action brought me because he thinks you can help. I have to kill, fight, to fix the breach into the fade. It -  affects me badly when I do.” It’s obvious she isn’t comfortable with the idea of what she has to do. Action doesn’t know if she realizes every spirit in the Fade knows what she is doing, what the Inquisition is doing. There are far more eyes turned to Thedas than ever before.

“You wish her trained to kill mortals.” A question, not a statement from Strength aimed at them. Action nods abruptly, “Yes. She has need of training. I certainly cannot do it. I am the wrong shape and if I were to shift into one she knew – I imagine it would go poorly for her.”

“She will do as told?” Command this time, and Jayla bristles. Action laughs, a borderline barking sound. “If you tell her without treating her as a child, presumably. She has a mind of her own, and enjoys doing things to defy others.”

“She is defiance, then?”

“Perhaps. I think she favors Valor.”

Jayla sighs and turns back toward Action, shoving her face into his fur. “Alert me when they’re done.” It earns her another barking laugh. A nose affectionately shoved against her side.

********

Dawn approaches too quickly in the camp. It is chilly this morning, night still blanketing the sky and the woman stays wrapped in her apostate friend’s arms. She wasn’t getting up until he got up, until they had to. As it was, today she would go without armor, likely until they found armor to buy. She’d seen the bags upon bags of things her companions brought back, but all of it was sold as far as she could tell. With good reason – they had little in the way of cash, and money was king, as it was anywhere.

Not surprisingly, she is sore from her training in the fade. It isn’t so bad she won’t be able to function, but it did remind her she was alive, that she’d done good work in practice. Old pain from a new place. She should worry that she welcomes it. The Herald is sure, if Solas, Varric, or Cassandra knew, they would – well, what did one do with a masochist in this place?

Jayla buries her face against Solas’ neck and banishes thought from her mind. A hand buries itself in her hair. His face tilts down toward her. It’s how the fade gently wraps around her, keeping her half awake and half asleep.

When Solas wake, having lingered to have a lengthy conversation with Wisdom, he is sprawled on top of his charge. He’s lying on her arm, yet she doesn’t seem to care, breathing evenly with it curled around his back. He mirrored her in sleep, his arm thrown over her middle. Their legs are tangled and her face turned to him. It makes the recently woken man blink slowly. His mind doesn’t fully comprehend their positioning nor the intimacy they’ve apparently formed. It does make his brow furrow, all the reasons this is wrong running through his head. He shames himself for taking advantage of Jayla, for being so touch starved this was what his sleeping mind resorted to.

“You think too loud.” Jayla’s voice is raspy, her eyes blinking lazily as she leaves the fade completely. It’s a beautiful picture, a fantasy. _One we **could** wake to each morning without the pretense of keeping her dreams safe._ Action’s little aside makes Solas sigh heavily. When Jayla raises a questioning brow, he delicately deflects.

“It is the nature of my mind, I suppose. I recall saying something like that you not long ago, da’len. Did you sleep easy last night?” The urge to nuzzle against her neck almost overwhelms him, and Solas mentally chides Action. He would not move their intimacy with Jayla past this point. It was wrong. He was far too old, far too caught up in plans to even think of pursuing her.

“Yes. I was with Action.” The hand at his back pets him through the thin material of his sleep shirt. It makes him melt against her little by little. Neither of them is in a hurry to get up. Solas because she’s turned him into a puddle of goo, not to mention he’d like to never see Jayla half dead again. Jayla because she doesn’t want to draw her blades or fling her magic. So, they lay there. Wrapped up in one another and ignoring the world. Right up until Cassandra slaps at top of the tent.

“Wake up you two! We’ve things to do.”  Her voice is curt, and Jayla wonders if Cassandra is a morning person or a night person forced to be a morning person. Because she’s got money on night person. No one was grumpier at dawn than a person who’d rather be sleeping until noon.

“Ugh.” Her eloquence makes Solas chortle, his face buried in her hair.

“Indeed, da’len. We must join the world.” The mirth in his voice is hard to ignore, for all that she wants to ignore the world. “If you need, we will go for the Templar encampment alone. There is evidence they are in Fort Connor.”

“I will deal, Solas. I can go to pieces when the world isn’t watching me.” Which was – it was never or directly after a battle. Which was stupid to leave herself, her fellows vulnerable fussing over her. It put them all in danger. So, she was going with never. Gods she is a mess. Extracting her arm from under the slight elf, Jayla rolls from the bedding and shoves herself upright, her back to Solas.  Her night shift is thrown off in the direction of her pack and her dress is tossed on. He blinks when he notices she wears no breast band. He hadn’t known she’d started going without. He didn’t know if she ever went with now that he ponders on it a little. When she goes to throw the dress over her head, he remembers their goal yesterday.

“Ah. We procured you leathers. We thought it might be good to have you in something a bit sturdier for the duration of our stay here in the hinterlands.” His ears have warmed. In the few seconds her back was bear to him, he saw her rather clearly. He also saw the demarcation of her new skin versus the old.

“Oh. Well, I’ll change into them when I’ve got them. For now, it’s the dress.” Her shoulder hitch into a shrug, “Get your shirt on, Ha’hren. Before Cassandra decides your defiling my virtue.” Her lips twitch into a smirk as she looks at him over her shoulder, pulling her hair from the neck of the dress. She leaves her elven mage moments later, his mouth partially open.

Defiling virtue? The man and spirit let the words echo in their head. That she said it, means their imagination runs wild for a moment. A singular moment before Solas shakes his head and shoves himself into his shirt and coat. He climbs out of the tent to see Jayla giddily chomping on an apple with two more in her lap. It seems someone finally noticed her aversion to porridge. It is too perfect of a morning. Solas wonders what it is that will ruin it for the lot of them.

The group is underway as the pink of dawn gives way to mornings light. Jayla is in rogue gear, and she looks ridiculously uncomfortable. Cassandra couldn’t honestly figure out why. It was made for a woman, fit well, for armor not specifically made for her. She shouldn’t look or be uncomfortable at all.  They have walked perhaps five minutes outside of camp when the Herald hisses sharply, her hand clenching, mark shedding green sparks.

“There’s a rift up ahead.” Her words are so sure, Cassandra doesn’t question it, she simply continues moving forward. Surprisingly, the young woman does not hang back. She keeps pace, more or less, with Cassandra, adjusting her course until they are confronted with terrors and wraiths. The Seeker immediately engages the terrors, Solas and Varric dealing with the wraiths from a distance. Jayla, she dives after Cassandra, daggers out, vibrating with magic.

The Herald’s magic has always looked strange to Cassandra. Arrows, domes, hammers of fire. It wasn’t the norm, but nothing about the woman was. The younger woman calls down what looks like it could be star fire from the heavens on top of one of the terrors. It doesn’t stay down long, but she casts again, zipping forward as if fade stepping, to make a series of tiny cuts into the demon.

Cassandra doesn’t make much sense of the glimpses she sees, hacking away at the other terror. However, when Jayla’s goes down, felled by light so bright Cassandra could feel the heat, her glove is off, mark stretched up to the rip. The connection pulls at her from the bottom of her soul, but she pulls back wrenching the tear shut sealing the edges.

The last Terror goes down easily, ichor and parts showering of the Seeker. Jayla sighs, head tilted back. For a moment, she’d felt – pulled part of her lifting, a part inside her. It didn’t make sense and she wasn’t about to vocalize that. “Let’s grab up the pieces that are intact, send them to Minaeve in Haven, she said she researches things like this. It’ll be a good start for her.”

Jayla says it as she crouches, picking up terror claws, and a heart. It makes her grimace, but she shoves it into her oilskin hip bag. Better to have information than none. The presence of bits of armor and some coins makes her blink. Why would demons have these things? She shoves them into her pack after whipping them off on her leathers.

“Everyone good?” A chorus of yes makes her smile, shoving herself to her feet. “Let’s go then. Varric – why don’t you tell us a story?”

“You heard the one where we met Fenris, or as I like to call him, Broody?” Her ears perk, head swiveling back toward the storyteller.

“No, I haven’t. I haven’t even gotten to read your Hard in Hightown or Tale of the Champion, yet. Regale me.”

Varric chuckles, eyes lighting up as he launches into the job that gained them a runaway slave. He’d figured it would interest Jayla. She was a people person, always wanted to know more about cultures and history, customs. Fenris would hate her, because of her magic, but he’d be hard pressed not to at least be fascinated by her ways. Sort of like he’d been with Hawke. They manage to walk right past the strange telescope looking apparatus. 

It makes their walk easier, though the story is interrupted by some Templars near a rocky outcrop. Their Herald hesitates, her hands freezing halfway to her daggers. There are only two Templars to deal with, so her hesitation doesn’t cost them much. Cassandra calls their attention, Solas and Varric hitting them with a barrage of magic and arrows. Jayla isn’t needed in the fight. The first hit that lands on Cassandra, however, has her snapping to attention, into action.

Her daggers are pulled, and she slips into the copious shadows provided by the rocks. The knives flash at knees and ankles, hobbling the Templar without a large shield to work with. Only one ankle has the hit land, but the same knee has a bloody gash in it as well. He’s not hobbled, but he is slowed down, his swing at her easily dodged. The small shield he holds is lifted, tilted toward the ranged men when he feels their attacks bearing down on him. She darts forward, feinting with her blades at the Templar's neck, attempting to force the shield up, kicking moments later to try and take out the opposite knee.

The Templar takes her to the ground. Jayla yelps, the edge of his shield biting into her right arm. The Herald is lucky, had he been just a little more coordinated, she’d have been impaled. As it is, the wind has been knocked out of her, and the woman on top of her – because now she can see into the helm she finds a woman’s eyes looking back at her, is heavy. Plate mail and muscles make for a heavy thing. One arm is free, Jayla remembers Command’s demonstration. Remembers the order to go for the eyes.

She does, yelling and looking away. The weight on top of her multiplies with a strained sound. Her heart thuds loudly in her ears, blood dripping down the tang and handle of the blade against her throat. Another one dead, another murder to hold in her heart. Her eyes dart to the dead Templar, grimacing when she sees she’s shoved her dagger into the space between the eyes, right at the bridge of the nose. Pulling it out makes a sucking sound and she gags.

“Da’len! Herald! Are you all right?” Solas is the first to edge toward her.

“Yes. Help me get her off me!” She grunts, shoving futilely with one arm. “My arm is caught under the shield.”

Distantly she notes the strange sound that comes with a sword being shoved into the chest cavity. The sound of air being driven out of the lungs, and short exclamation of pain. She tries to rationalize that that life isn’t also on her. Tries, and fails. When the body lifts a bit, she tucks and rolls from under it. The dark woman does her best, her very best, to keep the nausea down. However, when she spots Cassandra, blood spattered, sword covered, she scrambles away from the scene. About eight feet if she’s lucky before everything she ate that morning comes right up.

Cool hands press against her neck as she heaves. There’s nothing left after a few, but her body keeps going. It’s the worst part about being ill. This is breaking a four-year streak. That just makes it worse.  She’s attempting to force herself to stop and the rest of her isn’t listening.

“Relax, Jayla. Relax. I can help if you let me. Don’t fight your body, da’halla.” Solas’ voice sooths her, not more than his hands, but it soothes her. Following his order, it’s easier than it sounds. Far easier. Years of a conditioned reaction make it ridiculously hard to ignore them. But, she tries.The Wolf soothes her with nonsense noises, the cool magic travelling down her spine and back up to the base of her neck. His free hand rustles through his packs, pulling out mint leaves, offering her two. “Chew these. It will help.”

The younger mage hesitates before taking them and shoving them in her mouth. It takes a while, but she does feel her stomach settle. She heaves in a breath and sits back on her knees. “Thank you, Solas. I’m –“

“Don’t apologise. You did well. This happens, even to the best of us.” He stands, offering her a hand she happily takes to pull herself up. Turning, carefully so she doesn’t end up stepping in her own sick, she blinks so see Varric and Cassandra have already looted the bodies, their packs bulging a bit.

“Well, at least I don’t have to strip the body," it's a thankful muttering before Jayla's eyes light on the woman crunched up like discarded paper off to the side."That corpse – the woman, she doesn’t look like she's been dead long. She’s still pink, we should, ugh.” Her lips flatten as her nose wrinkles. “We should search her.”

Varric does so without much of a complaint. Well, that’s a lie, he complains the whole time just to make Jayla roll her eyes and tell him to get on with it. They find a letter, some money, a locket. The letter is handed to Jayla and she sighs heavily. She glances at it, handing it to Solas without a word. It garners some raised eyebrows, but the elvhen mage reads it aloud.

“Ah, she was on her way to meet her lover, a mage. Perhaps we will be able to tell him of her fate should he be with the cult still.”  He looks up from the paper, folding it carefully and slipping it into a pouch. “I hope her trying to reach him is a comfort.”

“She should have had someone with her. Someone in case there were Templars, or bandits, or mages! What is wrong with people here? It’s dangerous, they can’t defend themselves. She couldn’t.” Jayla’s words are harsh and she cuts herself off, taking a breath. This was a senseless waste. All of it was, the Templars, the Mages, the people caught in between. But then, from what she’d learned in grade school and college – all wars ended up being senseless wastes of life.

“Let’s get to that fortress. That mother needs the potion, and her paramour needs to know she died.” Blades sheathed at her hips, Jayla takes hold of her pack straps and takes off. She doesn’t think about burning the bodies, she just wants to get far, far away. Cassandra and Varric take off behind her, and Solas takes a moment to call fire on all three corpses before running to catch up.

Trudging along, Varric takes up the story of meeting Fenris once more, though it doesn’t ease the line of tension in Jayla’s shoulders. It makes it worse. Every time Varric mentioned Fenris ran away from his master, had to fight for his freedom, killed his master, master's apprentice, almost killed his sister, hated mages and relished killing slavers, Jayla winds tighter. Not entirely in judgement of the man, she didn’t know him, but his situation, his response to it. It made her wonder if this was what it was like for the freedmen during her great-grandmother’s day. Did they just hate everyone white because of what their owners had done to them? Would they have been happy to kill them if given the chance?

“This place seems so lawless.” She huffs the words out as they round a bend, ignoring a cave off to their left. She’ll look at that later. Caves meant loot. Everyone and their brother knew that. But first, the important things.

“What do you mean?” Cassandra is who asks this, eyes shifting to the other brunette.

“It… Your justice system here is far more flawed than what I’m used to. Where I’m from, we can find murderers from a piece of skin, a strand of hair, blood under the victim’s fingernails, our cops – guards, they patrol the streets, or sit in cars in even the smallest towns. To persecute someone because of their race, skin color, sexual preference, or gender status is also illegal in a good deal of situations. Fenris; he might, might have fallen through the cracks in my world’s justice system. Slavery, human trafficking as we now call it, has gotten sneaky, very sneaky. But out right slavery is illegal, across the world as far as I’m aware.

In my country, just under 160 years ago, there was a civil war. The lead up started officially 1859, but really got traction after Lincoln, eh, I guess, perhaps you’d equate him to an Archon or maybe the Viscount? I’m not sure, when he got elected as President, one of the states drew up a legal proposal to remove itself from the nation and voted in favor of it. That got the country started in a domino effect of union and confederate states. Union states agreed slavery wasn’t constitutional, that a person was a person and not three fourths of a person or property. Sort of. It’s complicated. The Confederacy wanted to keep their free source of workers for massive cotton and tobacco plantations. But anyway, there is ten months of build up to the war proper. The Confederacy had a President, a capital, the whole deal. And we went to war to free slaves and rejoin the country. It was a five year bloody, bloody war. Most people killed on our country’s soil ever. It pit brother against brother, father against son. It was bad.

And then afterward? It didn’t get better. Not at first. My people’s situation crawled toward better until nearly a century later. Just five years short of a full century from the finish of the war. And even then, we got the right to vote, but people still killed us. They still kill us. We still get harsher sentences for crimes that people of different colors are convicted of. But – that’s not my point.

Fenris? He would have been found, had his parents reported him missing, or even if someone reported him as looking abused to the authorities. His Master would have been put in jail with the proper evidence. The slave ring too if he testified, if they could find other slaves also taken by that ring. It would take years of work and a lot of cooperation on all fronts – but it would happen. He would have had his justice instead of having to resort to murdering his former Master. He could have had help, a doctor to help his mind heal from the trauma. There are resources in my world that this world doesn’t have. Won’t have for hundreds of years, if ever.

So – for me. To be doing this, even during a war – I feel wrong. There is a way to do things during war, yes, we kill one another, but it’s rarely up close and personal like what we do. We’ve got guns, black powder and metal bullets that explode out of what amounts to a fancy tube mechanism. However, we can’t torture people, there are war crimes, war crime tribunals if people break the rules. It’s all – very complicated and precise in my world. I’m simplifying it too much.”

It’s the most any of them have heard Jayla speak. And what a speech. It was fascinating, to imagine a world where slavery would have legal retribution. Where officials were elected rather than chosen by their predecessor or the seat was passed down a family line. Solas finds it rather appealing, if inelegant. Varric can see the good in it, even Cassandra, perhaps _especially_ Cassandra can see the appeal.

“And if a King or this President is killed?” Cassandra asks, thinking of her own place in the line to the Nevarran throne. She had no intention of ever being closer than she was. The Seeker is quite comfortable with her lot in life, far, far away from nobility and its issues.

“Assassinated or just up and dies? Huge investigations occur. The power in oligarchy transfers to the next in line, but none of our Kings or Queens that I’m familiar with have full power anymore. They’re more figureheads than anything, the last person to sign off on a law. Presidential power and duty is transferred to his Vice, and if the Vice is killed the next highest ranking official within the government. They finish out the term however long that might be is determined by the country and its constitution. Anyone, theoretically, in my country over the age of 35 may run and be elected to the presidency. Not anyone _should_ run, however.” Her eyes are forward as they walk, her statements clear cut and matter of fact. Jayla works within her high school knowledge of governmental systems. She had rather enjoyed government class, economics less, but government had fascinated her. Not enough to go into the subject at college, though.

“What of the thieves?” Varric looks as interested as a rogue can be in the subject. It was utterly foreign to him. They had magistrates sure, but, they could be bought off far too easily. The guard put people in jail, but in situation like theft or rape the opportunity and means to prove guilt is limited.

“If and when they are caught, they are put on trial with a judge, a lawyer defending them, one prosecuting them and a jury of their peers decides if they are innocent or guilty based on evidence both physical and verbal given during the trial. The same for murders, rapists, abusers. No one is killed without a trial unless they resist arrest or someone takes the law into their own hands.”

“What of corruption?” This comes from Solas. His eyes are keen on Jayla as he asks, ears perking to show interest.

“Oh, it’s there. People tend to ignore it in most places. Or it seems like they do with my country. Unless it’s huge, it gets swept under the rug for the most part. One newspaper article or news report and then you never hear about it again. Or you hear about it a ton and no one does a damn thing about it!” Her voice takes on an indignant, hard edge. “The people who try and fail? They’re made a mockery of, their names dragged through the dirt. But, it also depends on where the corruption is that you’re going after. There was a lady who got third degree burns on her legs - really, really serious - probably a touch less severe than what I had yesterday, and on a much smaller area, from a cup of coffee served to her at a restaurant. All she wanted was help paying her medical bills, she didn’t want millions upon millions of dollars in compensation – but the restaurant refused. So, she took them to court. She won. They gave her the money but launched a smear campaign against her. So, no one really knows the story! Not unless you go looking for it and then you have to wade through a bunch of falsehoods. It’s maddening.”

Jayla shakes her head. She can think of so many more things to highlight the injustice of her world, but none of it proves that Thedas is lesser. Thedas isn’t. As far as she knows. Perhaps …equal to on the suck scale. She opens her mouth to speak some more, to say she doesn’t think Thedas is unredeemable, when a shout cuts through the air. Her head swivels, they were just coming to a tower. The voice had sounded close. The others watch, snapping into action moments later, as their Herald bolts up the stairs of the tower. Crossing the bridge, the voice shouts again, and Jayla can see her now. Him, them? Someone who is slight, but facing off against two Templars.

“Hey!” She screams it as she runs, and throws a bolt of lightning. Her mind zips to the idea of the Flash, and how rogues could move in her MMO games. Immediately Jayla pushes her aura into herself, trying to make herself go faster. No one innocent need die today. Not when she was _right there_ to help.

Getting closer, breathing heavy, Jayla notices the woman, and it is a woman, is garbed like one of Leliana’s people. She dives into the fray without hesitation. Yelping at the scout to get clear as she shoves herself into the air, summoning her electricity storm under her to keep her afloat. It distracts the Templars from the scout at least, who has several rather severe cuts. Varric is next on the scene, appearing and kicking at a Templar before flipping away. “Templar deserters!” His voice is dripping with acid.

She’s impressed, that was not something Jayla’d think he'd be able to do. Her spell ends and her daggers are grabbed as she hits the ground, her mind pulling at the veil so she can get away from the men she was practically on top of. Her dagger glances off the side of her target, aimed just a touch too high to slide into his waist. She gets an elbow to the face for her troubles. The pain making her stagger away, recovering in just enough time to be rushed by him. She dances out of the way, left side being clipped by his shield. It’s been abused today, later she was going to need a potion or two to keep it from causing her issues during the night.

He rounds on her, and she faces him. With someone to protect, Jayla doesn’t hesitate. She attacks, meets him blade for blade. The roguish mage holds her own long enough for Cassandra and Solas to join the party, sustaining only minor damage in the meantime. Five against two, the Templars go down quickly after that. Though, Jayla is again attacked by nausea afterward. She stalks to the edge of the cliff, spitting and breathing deeply to try and quell her stomach.

Cassandra and the others inspect the area, noting that the scout – Ritts apparently – had been out here with someone, having a picnic. Varric practically pounces on the girl, extolling her virtues and stroking her ego to make her some special part of the Inquisition. He’ll likely bring the girl to Leliana’s attention. He isn’t wrong – anyone who can charm a woman wanted dead by half the world out of her pants was talented.

“Hey Princess, you holding up alright? You did a number on those Templar. I’m impressed. You saved her life.” A wide dinner plate hand slaps her on the back and she yelps. Her head turns, eyes on Varric.

“It’s easier when someone is being directly threatened. Someone not us, I mean. I know we can all take care of ourselves.” Her voice is quiet, watching as Ritts heads for the outskirts. She surveys the area, ginning when she notices the fortress perhaps five minutes from where they stand. Fifteen if they are leisurely about it.

“Thank Circe. We found the fortress! Let’s get these men on their way to the beyond, Ritts' companion as well, and see what we can find amongst the cult.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> da’panelan - little warrior


	15. I'll Wrap Myself in Cellophane to Keep From Unravelling.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is frustration, confusion, a promise of cultural exchange, and lessons to be had.

Jayla feels disgusting when she finishes with the Cult in the hills. She’s got people to help the towns people once her group leaves, and that’s something. A whole cult of people now sworn to the Inquisition. It’s a little distressing. As much as she appreciates them helping, getting behind a cause rather than waiting for some dead woman to come speak to them – it’s scary to think that her happened upon power gives her so much sway. She’s covered in guts and demon blood, but everyone looks at her as if she’s spun gold. She heads into the Tavern, finds the man mentioned in the letter and speaks quietly with him a while.

In the matter of minutes Jayla has him signing on to the Inquisition. And the child who had abandoned his mother without any back up for his talent? He got a dressing down that would be written in history. He’d been shame faced, but forked over the potion and recipe with instructions to make it. Her head shakes thinking about it, very quickly leaving the fortress, companions in tow. The cultists have rubbed her all the wrong ways. She can’t be rid of them fast enough. Not so fast she doesn’t feel the air disturbed behind her, and slam down a barrier as the rogue attacks.

“What the shit?!” She wasn’t expecting an assassin (probably a good thing), but very quickly blinks away from him, drawing blades before tugging the veil around her. It’s annoying and highly detrimental to her attack when he does the same, shrouding himself in shadows she didn’t even know were present. Her comrades are swearing, Varric’s eyes sharp as he looks out for her.

The air moves, there, a shimmer, just behind – _fuck,_ Solas. She sprints, pushing her body to move quickly, barreling into the assassin. She comes out of her stealth swinging, and he does the same. One dagger pierces through the outer meat of her thigh, and hers catches him in the gut. It was inevitable, unavoidable in such close quarters. She twists the dagger jerking up toward the ribcage.

The whole thing is over before it really began, nearly bloodless without counting her weapon. But her leg, Jesus. Hissing, she sits, leg stretched out to the side and wrenches her blade from the body. “Good job, Princess. Now, let’s get this thing out of you.” Varric is right there, smiling like a new father. Jayla will never get used to that. Pride over a kill. Hunting made sense, perfect sense, but this? Not even a little bit to her mind.

Still, she braces when he tells her to, wills herself to keep as relaxed as possible – and bites through her lip when the dagger comes out. Solas replaces Varric one hand hovering over her wound, the other pinching at the sides of her jaw until she is forced to open her mouth. Then his magic flows over the bitten lip. In no time at all she’s pieced back together, good as new.

“Ugh. Rogues are dicks. Thank you, Solas.”

“No thanks needed, you did, after all, save me from a rather fatal back wound.” His smile is so sad, and that’s a quality that Jayla just now knows to put a name to. His smiles are always tinged with sadness. He offers his hand to her, and she takes it, pulling herself up and dusting herself off.

The newly healed leg is a little tight, but it’s nothing a good proper stretching session easy day won’t fix. Pulling out her map, the Herald chews at her lip. “To the west, a camp possibility has been marked, we should check it out, grab some rams and get back to the village. The faster the better.” Her mind is not on the man she just killed. It’s not. It’s _not_.

The walk is quiet, tense. Jayla knows they’re waiting. She’s had meltdowns the last twenty-four or more hours over the deaths. Right now – they’re on the clock with a deadline looming overhead. She’ll go to pieces later. It’ll be safe to let it go later, when people aren’t watching, listening, waiting. Her legs are screaming from the power walking up and down hills when they get to the marked camp. She’s more than happy to greet the scout station there, and say ‘why yes this place you clearly think is good to camp in, will in fact, be great to camp in, bring the tents James!’.  More or less. Less actually and more cordially.

Jayla gives them all time to recover from the rift skirmish. Despair demons were a trip. And not a good trip. Her hands run over her face as she sits in the half-broken tower, head pressing back against the stone, knees pulled up to her chest. Those little bastards got their fingers in you easy. All they needed was a little bit of pain, just a drop in the bucket and despair was on you like a starving shark.

Her pain called to them like a siren’s song. They’d focused on her and didn’t let up even as Cassandra hacked away at them. So, fresh, they had whispered, the pain was right there on the surface, waiting to be feasted upon. Jayla’s shoulders shake with hysterical mirth. She was a demon’s wet dream apparently. Nightmare demons had a hard on for her, Despair wet itself feeling her. What was next? Her pride has been shot quite a few times since coming to Thedas. Sloth? Not a chance. Greed? Nope. She wanted nothing to do with heaps of money or heaps of power. Ambition? Eh. Lust – well, that might end up being a problem, later down the road. She’d deal with that when it fucking got to her. Right now, she’s just so _tired_.

No one says that demons feeding off you would leave you drained. Literally no one had ever told her that. Everyone said: avoid them. That’s real fucking useful when your livelihood is now hunting the poor bastards down. An hour passes and Jayla throws herself onto her feet.

“Let’s go. We need five rams today.” She barks the order, and moves on auto pilot.

“I am worried about her.” Cassandra who usually walks beside or in front of Jayla hangs back with Solas and Varric. She’s been watching the girl all day. Three skirmishes, three deaths. Jayla isn’t unravelling. This could be very bad for the girl and for them.  The Templar, Rickson, the younger man who kept his distance from Jayla, is the one walking beside her now. How things changed. He was a silent man, Cassandra isn’t sure she’s ever heard him speak. She’s not sure he can, honestly.

“We all are. She took that rogue out quick, she went after those Templars like she wanted to rip them to pieces with her bare hands. Her armor? There are blood stains. Her throat looks like she got it slashed.” Varric lists off all the things that should have Jayla breaking down. It was a long list considering what had been going on the last few days.

“Our Herald has expressed the intent to go to pieces when she was alone.” Solas’ eyes stay on the young woman who was power walking down the hill. She was determined, and he’s fast coming to realize, his estimation of an indomitable will was not far off. Jayla will keep herself together, until the darkness hits.  “We will take her off watch rotation, yet? I will take the first tonight, as I doubt we will make it back to the outskirts camp before night hits. I can monitor her in the Fade, while she sleeps. I will not be invasive, but I will make sure she’s all right.” He heads off protests at the pass as best he can.

Varric looks highly uncomfortable with the idea of the Fade. Solas puts it down to the children of stone being unable to properly dream. Cassandra is wary, as she has been since they met. It was unavoidable. He’d shown up out of the blue, and offered knowledge no one else had. He’d put at target on himself.

“It’s not the worst idea. But she’s not going to like it any more than she likes Rickson still trailing her.” The strawberry blond man nods at the two almost two yards in front of them. The it was stony silence. Jayla’s back is rigid with tension. Her hand flings to the side, and a bolt of lightning slaps into a ram. For the first time, she killed one in a single hit.

“We should, perhaps, send a missive to Commander Cullen. He might have ordered the Templar, but he is not the sole power of the Inquisition. Cassandra, you are a Seeker, and you are her advisor, you can easily pull rank to remove him.” Solas rather pointedly looks at the woman in question who eyes him a moment before sighing heavily. Never did she think that the Herald would cause so much trouble when it came to the Commander. Yet, here they were.

Another crack of lightening, Rickson is rigid, hands at his side while Jayla hunts. Or what amounts to hunting for a mage. The other three hurry down the slope. Varric is the one to break the silence, all smiles and laughter.

“Princess, you keep that up and we’re not going to have any work to do!” 

Usually that would get some kind of comment out of Jayla, even if it was only a groan and her insistence he sounded like a dad. Dad jokes she called them. Apparently, it meant they were highly unfunny. Lame was her word of choice. Varric chooses to disagree and turns a little green every time she mentions it.

“Princess-“

“We have work, Varric. Let’s just get this done.” He looks like he’s been slapped, they all do. Jayla was rarely terse with any of them. She’s screamed at Solas until she was blue in the face. She was never terse with him. That was saved for Roderick, whom she had attempted talking to all of once, and Cullen, who refused to deal with whatever discomfort she caused him.

They work silently, Cassandra and Rickson hauling the first two downed rams. The afternoon goes by silently. However, it isn’t unproductive, four more rams are caught, and Elle uses her magic to take the one that no one can carry. The path to the outskirts and crossroads is blessedly clear, and their delivery goes off without a hitch. Five rams making for nine total. Eleven left.

Jayla stays with the hunter for the rest of the afternoon and takes the beasts apart for preservation and cooking. Solas stayed as well, quietly teaching her the spell that put things in stasis. It was useful for many things, keeping potions from boiling while having to run to a patient, keeping food from rotting before being used. A household and healer’s spell.  Rickson doesn’t approach them, staying carefully away, sitting beside what had been the healer’s hut that now stood abandoned.  The others are nowhere to be seen. Solas doesn’t think on it too long, concentrating on minimizing the amount of meat wasted in the butchering process.

“You should stick around Herald, you and your elf friend. We’ll make soup again the bones, the marrow’ll do you good. You’re a mite thin.” Thin he says, and Jayla looks down at herself with pursed lips. The idea of becoming…heavier, it doesn’t sit right with her. She trained so hard to be in this shape, and now her shape is already changing. Her strength is shifting. Yes, her core is still thick, as it should be to hold her up, to help keep her balance while she contorts and leaps and dips, her legs haven’t lost definition either, in fact, what fat had been on them? The training and walking is wearing away. Her arms are what’s changing. They’d been lightly toned, just enough to keep her from falling on her ass during routines, but nothing major.

Now, hefting daggers, which had considerable weight to them, constantly being put through her paces while in haven – the shape is solidifying. So, it baffles her as to being called thin. Enough that she makes a displaced noise. It’s loud enough that both men take notice.

“I meant no offence, Herald.”

“No. I know. I just. Where I hail from – thin is considered more beautiful than weight.” A month into being in Thedas and she’s finally picking up some of the speech differentials. Even with her cipher it isn’t exactly easy to understand these people all the time. In fact, Jayla is really sure that her magic just translates for her, because she should be having so much more difficulty with this.

The hunter’s brows draw together, clearly confused as to what set of people would laude the image of being underfed. Solas isn’t confused, not quite like the hunter is anyway. Elvhen women, they curved out when they became pregnant, the shift into motherhood brought with it the image change from maiden to matron. Matron not having a negative connotation within his society. The noble women, they were soft, the common people less so but if they were well enough off, it was there. Both images, maiden and matron were lauded in their own ways. He just. He had likened Jayla to the maiden image in his mind. Now he wonders if he shouldn’t have.

“I would like to hear about your people’s cultural beauty ideas,” he whispers it as they settle in with the Hunter. It has those dark eyes of hers smiling, twinkling in the red light of evening. Perhaps she is relaxing, finally, forgetting the horrors of her day. He can only hope, for her sake.

“Later, I will happily regale you with the ridiculousness of my home’s beauty culture. Perhaps when we get back to haven, where I won’t inadvertently offend someone.”

The dark woman’s meaning is clear. She wants the talk to be in private. Solas immediately thinks of dreams, but shies away from it. To date, he hasn’t shared a dream with her as himself. Not that _she_ knew of at least. Jayla hadn’t realized he was in that dream with Action, and Solas is happy to keep it that way. He may broach the topic at a later date, for now, he will enjoy speaking to her in the waking world. “Ma nuvenin.”

Her head tilts, hands pausing where they were moving against a cloth to remove some of the ram’s blood. “What does that mean?”

“It is elven, it means, loosely, as you wish.” Literal translations of his language were always a bit…clunky in common. Solas would much rather not translate if he can get away with it. His fault for speaking without speaking.

“What about da’len, and da’halla?” Her hands settle on the knees of her leathers, she’s leaning toward him. It shocks Solas she’s so interested in elvish as a language. Here is it long dead. His ears twitch at the tips and a light smile reaches his eyes.

“Small girl, or small child, and small halla. Halla are elegant creatures, snow white coats when young, tinged blue when they become older. The Dalish use them to pull their aravels.”

“I’m not small, nor am I even nearing Halla like elegance.” She sniffs and continues to wipe at her hands. “It’s rude, you know, to speak to me in a language I can’t possibly understand, unless of course you’re aiming to teach it to me.” There’s nothing that gets Jayla worked up faster than a person who knew English or the equivalent apparently, that purposely spoke something else. As if she were just supposed to know or as if they were doing it to prove they were superior in some way.

“Are you not? You seem quite small to me. Elegant as well, quite graceful, more so with each training session I’d wager.” He is ignoring the jab about his slipping elvish into the conversation. She likely wasn’t truly offended, and Solas isn’t going to cater to her simply because she flutters her lashes. He is elvhen first, and her companion second.

“You are freakishly tall and are an outlier that should be ignored.” The younger woman snipes at him, and huffs a breath, throwing down the cloth and shoving a hand against the small of her back, arching until a series of cracks is heard. The relief on her face is a touch distracting.

“I don’t know what an outlier is, but I assure you I am not to be ignored, da’asha. Especially as we’re to train this evening. We’ve been idle of late. We can’t afford to continue being so.” His knuckles are cracked as he settles onto the ground, looking pointedly at the stones across from him.

Grimacing, Jayla scoots across from him, knees under her chin. “Fine. Teach away oh master mage.” Her sarcasm was going strong in the early evening light. A defense mechanism of sorts, one just now rearing its head as she works hard to keep it together.

“Let’s try your hand at creation magic, I am confident in your abilities with Primal Schools. You’ve taken to lightning quite quickly, not to mention your penchant for lighting yourself on fire. Creation magic is healing based rather obviously within nature. Healers are the mages particularly gifted in this school. You, dear Herald, have shown a knack for pulling out rather unconventional healing spells. Useful, but it could be less than beneficial if you aren’t aware of the power it takes to use such magic and allow yourself to become too drained while fighting to pay attention to your surroundings. To start, you will work on small wounds. Focus on knitting together what has been torn asunder.”

Too quick for Jayla to stop, Solas pulls a small dagger and drags it along his finger. Just an inch, but it still makes the younger mage yelp unhappily, grabbing at his hand. Without thinking, she presses her lips to it, tongue sliding over it, belatedly remembering – _magic_. Pulling back, now that she can see the cut – and that is the story she will take to the grave – she pulls at herself, at her aura, to twist together the little pieces that have been sliced up. It takes a moment, blood welling from the shallow incision, but Jayla smiles to see his cut mending itself.

What she doesn’t see, is how brightly her magic is glowing around her for the spell to work. She mistakenly had not reached into the Fade to power her spell. Instead, she just used herself. Mana she had stored away. It bewilders her tutor, blue eyes narrowing as he watches, having to turn away when it flares brightly as her magic seeps into his skin. It was – very warm, almost uncomfortably so, yet very calming. A rather fascinating juxtaposition.

“That was – well executed. But, you did not tap into the fade. You’ll tire yourself very quickly just pulling from your own mana pool without the Fade to aide you. Do it again.” The knife flashes and this cut is across the pale man’s palm. It earns him another indignant noise.

“Solas, Jesus, would you quit that?” Dark eyes flick to his before her hand hovers over his. Like that day that feels like it was months ago, Jayla attempts the lay on hands spell. It goes far easier this time, though the twist of the veil has things rubbing all up against her. An invisible press against her aura. She shies away from it, leaning forward without noticing. The cut heals without a scar, without tightness usually associated with newly healed skin.

“Better. Why did you lean forward?” Solas inspects his hand, the finger, the palm, resolutely banishing the memory of the sensation of her lips and tongue on his skin.

“What?”

“You leaned forward during the healing, was accessing the Fade to provide the magic aided by your aura too difficult for the task?” It’s said kindly, without condescension for once. That alone has the darker of the pair’s eyebrows shooting toward the sky.

“No, it wasn’t taxing. I just – it felt strange. Like a bunch of people pressing up against me.” She shudders, the words bringing back the feeling. To Solas, this is rather novel. Spirit Healers describe a specific spirit that aides them whenever the call for healing arises. Jayla didn’t mention any spirit approaching her. So, what exactly was she feeling?

“Summon a ball of lightning for me, pulling just at the Fade.”

Eyeing her instructor come friend come sleeping buddy warily, Jayla stretches her hand between them and calls lightning. It’s so easy, the veil gives and the static of her called upon element rolling down her arm to form a ball in her palm. For a moment, she enjoys herself. She likes the feeling of her little lightning ball. It’s pleasant, prickly, a bit like getting a tattoo done. It’s a feeling that doesn’t last long. That press is back. Hands on her shoulders, the impression of breath at the back of her neck. Her dreads whip as she shakes herself quickly, the magic falling away as her focus shifts.

“I take it you felt the press of people again?” Fascinating, the spirit-bound elf will have to make notes of her experiences. Perhaps it was a direct result of her pulling in the ambient fade reverberations around her, storing and storing up on mana to likely a ridiculous degree. Perhaps it was because her world had no magic, no fade. The spirits likely find her a novel concept.

“Yes. Hands on my shoulders, breath on my neck, it’s creepy as hell. I don’t like it.”

A long finger taps at his chin. “We’ll have to keep practicing. I haven’t heard of that sort of feeling while performing magic outside of the creation school.” Blood magic doesn’t count in this. Spirits weren’t attracted to it, nor demons really. Blood fueling a spell was useless to nearly all of the fade inhabitants. Blood magic dulled the touch of the Fade to boot. It isn’t worth mentioning.

“Summon your elements one at a time, draw exclusively on the veil and fade. We will return to creation magic after the evening meal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the gap in updates. I'm moving overseas here soon and had to schedule a bunch of stuff to facilitate that. Also I've bogged myself down with frivolous prompts that take on lives of their own when I'm not looking. Still: progress is being made! 
> 
> A filler chapter has been completed, another work is halfway to being completely edited, while the other prompt waiting to be completed is becoming more involved than I intended. Still. It calms me to write and helps me keep moving with things around the house. 
> 
> Cheers, sorry about the exposition on my life.   
> xo


	16. Got the Scent of a Woman in His Nose

When the pair readies themselves for sleep, Jayla doesn’t even pretend to keep up the pretense their shared space will not end up being shared intimately. Her bedroll is shoved up against Solas’, pillow next to his, her pack placed at the head of the tent neatly.

She manages it so quickly Solas hasn’t much time to comprehend what’s going on until her leathers are being peeled off. His ears flare red, Elves of his time were not particularly modest creatures, but nor are they are so free with themselves as Jayla is around him. Humans, especially of this era he has learned, are painfully aware of nudity and did not tolerate it between themselves and others unless unavoidable. The only groups seemingly exempt from this were soldiers and mages.  He ponders the strangeness of it while the rustling of fabric continues, his eyes studiously on the tent’s supports off to his left.

It’s only when Jayla makes a small noise of contentment that he tears his eyes away from the tarnished metal pole off in the corner. He doesn’t take stock of what is folded beside her side of the bedroll, it wasn’t good for his health. Silently Solas heads for his side of the bedding, sitting silently and removing the wraps from his feet. If there was an emergency, he would forego them, it was not as if his feet weren’t used to the hard ground and all manner of things that might cause him injury. Few things would cause him great illness at any rate. His coat and over tunics are next, the belts removed and looped in an almost careless set of circles before being set aside.

This leaves him in a thin undershirt – well-worn over the last year, and his breeches. Sliding into the bedding, he does not pretend any more than Jayla had, and curls his larger frame around her. He listens as her breathing slows, does his best not to bury his face in her hair as he feels the tension melt out of her as sleep and the fade claim her.

  He takes a touch longer to surrender to the embrace of dreams, listening to the way she breaths. His hands stay in safe zones, away from places that would lead to things that would only make their lives that much harder. When his eyes do finally slide shut, and he slides into the Fade, Action is there waiting on him. The Wolf looks excited, and acts like a pup, tail wagging, tongue lolling as Solas shakes himself out, looking around this section of the Fade with curiosity.

“Where are we?” His ears twitch as he asks, music surrounding them. It was everywhere and nothing seemed to be able to drown it out. It was made with no instrument either spirit nor man could name. It was unnatural and absolutely fascinating. The lyrics were … equally fascinating. His feet are leading him toward the source of the music without his permission. He doesn’t even hear the Wolf answer, if Action does.

Solas does, however, feel when Action slides into his skin. It would seem he was to be the active one tonight. It suited him well enough. So much time locked in his wolf skin had left him on edge, eager to traverse the fade after being confined to watching rather than doing. He’d figure out this mystery tonight, and if he is very lucky it will be quite the adventure.

When her eyes open, the heat is impressive, nearly stifling. It’s a home she left ages ago, only rarely visiting when the stars aligned properly. She’d stopped going home when her parents started to take more deployments, fed up with one another, and not thinking about her at all. But that is neither here nor there.

This scene, the beach, the heat, the flashing lights in the darkness, it’s familiar thought it never actually happened. Jayla had never danced for a Rave, though she’d auditioned to do so, after a fashion, insofar as a go-go dancer could. But it hadn’t come to fruition. At least not while on her beloved Honolulu.

Her clothes melt into a form she is far more familiar with than what she’s been wearing in Thedas, her hot pants and fishnets the top that’s basically a bra with fantastic flower embellishments trailing around it and down her side, clipping into the shorts. Her feet are bare, her make up is florescent and flowers are weave into her hair. The music pounds through her, her heart speeding up and slowing with the reverberation of sound around her. She doesn’t pay attention to the spirits who form up around her, taking on the shapes of her earth compatriots as they take to the makeshift beach dancefloor.

This scene is memories shoved together, an amalgamation of moments that Jayla needed to withdraw herself from the rigors of Thedas. She’s said it several times now, thought it more than the times she’s said it, but this world was unforgiving. More and more she sees chaos where one would assume there should be order. There is also order held so tightly that it has become a detrimental force. She doesn’t know what to do – and it is becoming rapidly apparent that this is her burden to bear.

So, she casts it from her mind, she doesn’t seek out her spirit friends come trainers. She just needs to be in this moment, right here with sweat rolling down her back, her hair whipping around her as she throws herself into the beat, smiles when cheers go up from the floor. Glowing bracelets adorn her wrists and legs, and as the night around the dream becomes deeper, Jayla glows brighter.

This is nothing like Solas has ever seen. The mass of people crushed together of their own volition only happened in Thedas when something truly amazing was afoot. Not to dance, if that can be called dancing, to music, if it can truly be called music, in the middle of the night. The human forms are interesting. They vary in size and shape in ways only humans can seemingly achieve. Women and Men willowy as his own people, men who would give the Iron Bull a run for his money. Well-fed humans, humans who were clearly needing additional nutrition. Humans with ink sunken into their skin, and humans without a blemish on them. Humans painted so they glow and humans scantily clad in clothing that reflects the lights flashing around them.

The Wolf scents artificial desire, witnessing spirits who play at what Jayla’s memory of humans also did during this event. He shouldn’t be surprised. It is a basic primal instinct to find someone you are attracted to and bed them. Every race felt it, humans however, are the ones who do so with seeming abandon. Jayla’s people certainly do.

He finds her as she finds a hoop of light and swings it around her body, dancing with a single-minded purpose. Captivated, Solas watches her with blatant interest; for this is not like the dancing that destroys her feet and legs, nor like the dancing she does in his clothing, clothing now stained with her scent, a secret pleasure he holds in a death grip. This is energetic, proactive in a different manner. Where her ‘tribal’ dancing as she calls it is elegant in its own right, each movement telling a story, even when she uses it to flirt and make others uncomfortable.

This lacks elegance. There is a wild nature to it, no planning or thought going into her movements. He stands at the very edge of her dream, curious as to whether he should step into it or not. He wants to. It’s an urge he wasn’t familiar with anymore. That desperate interest in interacting with people. It didn’t matter what ‘sort’ of people they were, he just wanted to be with them.  Action nudges at him, whines in their head and Solas decides to throw caution to the wind – after a fashion.

He wills himself into a younger visage. His hair mimics Jayla’s as dark as hers, but her locs are far smaller than his ever were. His ears are hidden, he can slide into the crowd without being given away. His skin holds color, rich golden tones that he hasn’t seen in years. He might regain the rich color if he stays out in the sun more than a few hours at a time, if he uncovered more than his face, neck, hands, and toes. But that is neither here nor there. His visage is fixed but his clothes aren’t what they should be.

It takes a moment of concentration when his customary breeches and tunics are replaced, bare feet, pants that are cut off at the knees, a shirt without arms that barely constitutes a shirt. Her world is strange, and terribly interesting to him. There are apparatuses that the music leaves, music that makes the sand under his feet jolt as surely as it does his heart. The newness of the scene, knowledge that this is something she’s done before has him feeling as if he were thousands of years younger.

He wants to dive into the dream and learn all her little quirks. But, he can’t, even as Action nudges him forward. He’d stand out here. The ears certainly will make him stand out. His magic – she’d know it was him if she’d paid attention to a single one of his lessons. It is a conundrum, one that has him chewing his lip as he watches the spirits and the Herald contort in their - her – strange memory of dancing.

Action huffs in their shared space. “I’ve my own magic, if you remember.” The whisper makes the elf blink, having all but forgotten. A fleeting feeling of embarrassment shrouds him before he smiles. “Then, old friend, it will be you who steps us into her dream.”

It was perfect. Solas could be near her, interact with her, and not have her know. He wasn’t quite sure why he didn’t want to dream with her truthfully yet, but the urge to hide was great enough he lets his bound spirit take over. A strange sensation to be sure. They didn’t do it often, not anymore, it would get them killed without a doubt.

Solas’ eyes glow red as they step into the dream, Action’s aura flowing around them, twining with his making them more together. Some of the spirits, errant young versions of lust, taken notice and fled. They were barely malevolent those young spirits, but still they left the dream, blinking away as Solas, _Action_ – **Fen’Harel** – threads through the crowd. Some attempt to dance with him, clearly fueled by the memory used by Jayla to construct the scene he is now a part of. He indulges a few, learning how to move through them. Action could have done so with a simple brush against the other spirit but decides against it. He revels in the newness of the interaction, the scene laid out by a vibrant mind. He lets their aura expand away from them, seeking out their dancer’s.

She’d felt someone, something, enter her dream. It’s impossible for her to not know it, that aura was familiar. Jayla has spent several nights in the Spirit’s presence so recognizing him is less of an if and more of a when.  Her eyes flit around the dream, body still moving, her hula hoop swinging around her as the lights flash. That Action isn’t immediately visible makes her brows pull together, a frown pulling at her lips.

Feeling him wasn’t some phantom ache, he was here. So why couldn’t she see him? Her aura flares out, and immediately encounters Action’s. It makes her gasp, the intensity of his power. She remembers him telling her he was an old spirit, old and not as able to affect the world around him, that his magic was waning as such things did. Now that she’s touching his power with hers – the lithe dancer wasn’t sure how _that_ could ever be called waning.

His aura isn’t what floors the woman, it’s _him_. When she finally spots him, her breath stills in her chest. He’s – amusingly enough – like something out of a dream. Certainly, he’d chosen the form himself, but it’s one Jayla certainly appreciates. More than appreciates. He is gorgeous. All warmth with sharp features, ruby eyes that glow. His locs are meticulously kept and the dancer can’t help if her hair is a reflection of his, or if his is a reflection of hers. His structure, arms, legs, the thin nature of his stature is so reminiscent of another elf she knows.

Her lips tug into a frown. Reminiscent but not him. Solas didn’t dream with her for all that he sleeps curled around her. He keeps her safe, but doesn’t come into her spaces. Likely after the fight that is now almost a fortnight old.

The stage Jayla stands on is small, but expands at her will, her hoop dissipating in a flash of sparks as she curls a finger for Action to come to her. There isn’t a single spark of recognition in her eyes for the form they’ve taken. It amuses them, saddens them in equal measure.  Solas who is Action that is Fen’Harel stalks through the crowd of spirits, watches as their anchor bearer continues to make her serpentine movements.

Beautiful is a word too mild for their Herald. She is divine, ethereal, beyond their grasp in so many ways. She is strong and possessed of a brilliant mind. That woman is theirs and yet not. None could own her soul, and neither man nor spirit wanted to. Their mark made her theirs and yet she is no one’s but her own. A marvel in a world such as this.

He – they – are before her faster than anticipated, head tilted, watching her as she dances just under their normal field of vision. If Solas were just Solas, mind separate from his spirit, he would chastise her for tempting a spirit so. The rolls of her hips, the way she stares them down, inviting their scrutiny, interest – it is dangerous. Would be more so if Action had not already bound her in a deal, more so if their magic wasn’t burrowing into her being with each passing breath. As it is, he – they are tempted.

It would be so easy to reach out to her, to grasp a handful of her hair, a handful of her hip and draw her close. Easier still to fit their body against hers and follow the lead of her in a dance that mimics and mocks the oldest of dances. Their hands clench and they prowl instead, ruby eyes on her the whole time. Their eyes touch her as their hands can’t. Won’t. While Action would have her, Solas will not condemn her and it makes their merged state keep a conflicted distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter than my usual, but I'm getting back into the swing of things. Settling in means settling the mind and characters can be heard again. Thank you for the moving well wishes. We all made it overseas with our furbabies in one piece. I should be able to establish a regular update schedule again shortly while continuing to edit other works.


	17. Moving Forward in Baby Steps

In the weeks following the first appearance of Fen’Harel, Action and Solas have taken to merging more and more often to visit Jayla. There are days when Solas cannot enter the fade when she does, and thusly Action is alone with her, the days Solas dreams first are all days when their shared form is who greets the Herald. She takes to them as fast as she took to Action’s wolf skin. When called on it, Jayla had only shrugged, mentioning a man was easier to work with than a wolf. Neither is particularly convinced of the truthfulness of the statement, but neither do they continue to question her.

Instead their shared dreams shift between training and rest. They watch first hand as Jayla’s magic swells and grows exponentially, almost worryingly for a human woman who’d lived in a world without magic. Solas likens her to a focus that continually draws energy, storing it, making it her own. It’s not exactly far from the truth as he sees it. The dark woman is always drawing from the soil, trees, plants, animals around her. She seemingly never tires as he casts and never once in the time he has known her has Solas seen Jayla swallow a single drop of lyrium. A fact that has the Seeker and the Templar Rickson watching her closely.

There is little suspicion in the way they watch her, but there is concern. Bred concern from lifetimes of being taught the only types of mages were those who used lyrium and walked the halls of dungeons and those who consorted with demons. That Solas and Jayla both fall outside those parameters causes them disconcertion, he can read it in their every move.

Rickson has become more and more a part of their group, which for Jayla is something of a both some days, and it certainly bother Solas. He interacts with her carefully, and Solas has to stifle laughter whenever Jayla lashes out at the boy over a misstep. It should bother him more, that they(he) cannot quite seem to bridge the gap, for it doesn’t bode well for the day the veil come tumbling down around their ears, but he cannot find the emotion. Instead, he is selfishly pleased that Jayla does not seek out the Templar when a day has been particularly trying for her, as always, she seeks his presence instead.

It is a trying day for her today, Solas can feel the tension as Varric and Jayla return with half a dozen rabbits between them and half again as many nugs. Their supplies were running a touch low, some well-preserved meats wouldn’t go amiss. Solas assumes it was Varric who brought it up, but says nothing about it. More interested in the intense look Varric has on his face and the way the dark woman with bold and beautiful features resolutely seems to side step every attempt at conversation.

“You’re doing better, Princess, but you’re no rogue just yet. You’ve got the steps of the dance down but you’re still hesitant. And I hate to say it, but that will get you killed.” Varric speaks with Jayla quietly over the evening fire. It’s been just over four weeks after that first awful week in the Hinterlands. The dwarven storyteller had taken it upon himself to help the young woman become more combat efficient. She was raw like a nerve on the field and he didn’t want to see her dead. That was the reasoning he’d given when Varric had started to pull aside the Herald and teach her the finer points of aiming and shrouding.

“Varric,” her voice is soft and warning, eyes tired in the firelight. They had just passing off the game to other scouts to skin and prepare for the evening meal, each of them going to their side of the fire. She sits between Rickson and Solas, looking tired but whole for the most part.

“No, Princess – Jayla. This is serious. You hesitate, and I know you hate it but you can’t talk people down from a rage fueled by fear or just plain blind rage. It’s kill or be killed and I don’t know if you’ve noticed but we all rather like having you around, and not just for the glowing bullshit in your hand.” Solas hasn’t heard the young, relatively speaking, dwarf sound so grave. This is perhaps the best example of why Varric is a good, but not great spymaster. He’s got a paternal glow in his eyes, and that tone of voice fathers used to keep their da’len in line.

“Not tonight. We can talk about this any other day –“

  
“ _Jayla_. Maker damn it woman, no. You put it off and put it off and there can’t be anymore any other days. How many nasty stabs have you been the receiver of lately? How many times have you nearly given Rickson, Solas, or Cassandra a heart attack because you put yourself in the path of a demon or some wild bandit? This has to stop and you have to accept that this is a part of your life now.”

Solas tenses, watching them warily. He can feel the way Jayla’s magic fluctuates, her rising emotions loosening her usually iron grip on her magic. Her eyes turn stormy and her posture straightens, her arms cross, she is closing herself off, getting ready to dig in. “I won’t accept that I have to be a killer to do what I need to do to close the Breach. There isn’t –“

“Stop it.” Varric’s face screws up in anger, face ruddy with it. “Just stop. I know where you grew up and I know you aren’t used to this but if it comes down to some Templar or rogue Mage and your life? I am going to put a bolt between their eyes to save you. Solas would turn a man to ice rather than let you get hurt. Rickson, Cassandra, every one of our scouts –“

“Why are you pushing this?! I kill people every gods be damned day! How much blood have I washed off my hands and skin, out of my clothes and wiped from my blade? You can’t ask me to just be numb to it, Varric. I can’t, I won’t overlook taking a life like it’s nothing!”

Cassandra cuts into the fight, her voice cracking like a whip. “Enough. Both of you. Varric is not wrong, Jayla, but neither are you right. This is not the time nor the place for such a conversation. We’ve a duty to fulfill and it has taken us weeks to get this far. It will take us weeks yet to make it to where we need to be.”

Solas quietly commends Cassandra for her tact. The Seeker is usually so blunt, but this was a moment where her gruff nature did not steal her words. He observes as the Seeker’s eyes turn hard and settle on Jayla. “I am sorry, Herald, but we must train you to take the killing blow if your life is in danger. You are too slow and there have been many near misses. But that is for the morning. Tonight, we need to rest.”

It is less than a restful night for Jayla.

Days later when they finally make the trek to the Farmlands, they happen upon a rift. Well, they know about it the moment they crest the hill leading down to the banks of the river, Jayla’s wide eyed gasp making everyone tense. Her mark sputters, glows making small fissures in the palm of her hand. But the gasp is all the nose she makes as she curls her fingers into a fist and closes her eyes.

Rickson takes a step forward, putting himself on her right. He’s ever been silent, watchful as he protected the Herald, of late he’s become more proactive. Solas watches as Jayla eyes her watcher, a strange look of acceptance on her face for a split moment before dark eyes face forward and her jaw tightens in determination.

“Looks like we’ve got some unhappy spirits to deal with.” Her voice doesn’t waver, though it’s lower than normal, no doubt trying to hide the pain she feels. Solas takes his staff from his back while Cassandra readies her weapon and shield, Varric getting Bianca settled and Rickson pulls his great sword.

The short walk down the hill is tense, all eyes watchful for demons that might attempt to flank or attack them farther from the rift. Some very sneaky terror demons and wraiths seemingly enjoyed taking others by surprised. Today is seemingly no different. They are within sight of the rift when a tail flings itself from a rift like opening under their still fearful leader, curling around her ankle and flinging her all within two breaths. The Herald hasn’t even got time to cream before she is colliding with Cassandra who has to hastily throw aside her mace for fear she’ll injure Jayla otherwise.

As it is, the younger human woman has the thinnest of leathers on, sewn from ram leather given to her by the hunter at the cross roads. It fit her better, but afforded less protection. Their collision has Jayla yelping in pain, rolling as quickly as she can off the other woman. Her daggers are gone, dropped during her flight, but the woman is up ready to fight, fire licking at her skin by the time she is fully up right.

It always amazes Solas just how readily her aura bends to her will, how easily the veil and elements of Thedas fuel her. So too does the way Jayla’s magic manifests. This time it is flaming arrows and what looks like a sigil, violently wrought to rain fire upon the terror that had come to attempt to destroy them. She is a coldly angry whirlwind without her offensive weapon, pressing down on the single demon who cries out for help with fire. Arrows, hammers, she pulls them out of her mana and he feels the way new energy comes to replace what has been lost.

A never-ending supply it would seem. Rickson’s yell, the boy’s charge at another demon trying to flank them puts them all into gear. Cassandra and Jayla deal with the weakened Terror, while Rickson, Varric and Solas take on the Despair demon. Ice magic chills the area around them, and Solas pulls at the fade for his attacks, heating the area with a lesser fire storm and pummeling Despair with a well-placed fist of stone. Varric uses his bolts to pin it in place and Rickson hacks at the spirit, managing to take an arm before it flies free of their efforts, sobbing quietly, eerily before taking aim once more. The first skirmish lasts less time than usual, but when the first demon breaks into green light, it sends Jayla running down the bank.

 “My lady!” Rickson is the one to go after her, sword hastily thrown into its sheath so he can pick up speed. Despair flies off behind them, the eerie sounding cries now pained, bordering on whimpers. They are the demons Solas hurts for the most. Despair could have been any spirit if twisted just the right way. And while they may feed off people’s grief, they were as much victims as anyone else.

Still he charges after it, a wall of fire forming between it and Cassandra as she over takes it, going to help Jayla and Rickson. The rogue and mage can hear the clash, the yelps of pain, shrill shrieks of demons as they finish off the Despair stubbornly clinging to life. He is pained to see it the spirit remnants burst from it, showering them in what matter had made its body. The rags and pieces make his stomach roll but it is a short-lived sensation when he hears Jayla cry out.

Four Fade Steps and he is in the middle of the fray, the chill of the area and stereo sobbing making his insides twist. More demons. Of course, there could not simply be two and have it be over. That would be too simple for them. Two terrors, two despair. Jayla was half bent, ice clinging to her clothing, red staining her back with Rickson standing over her – protecting her as she flings her hand up at the rift once more.

He can feel it pulling together and the demons do as well, all four turning as if they are puppets on strings. Another wall of fire goes up, shields dropped on the mage and her protector. It irritates the demons who turn on him now with Cassandra diving forward to hack and slash at the closest one. He’s got his own barrier, and darts around the field for a time trailed by despair and terror. Varric makes it to the field just as Solas is upended, the opportunistic nature of terror getting the better of the elder mage for a moment.

The urge to simply incinerate the being rises and Solas hastily shoves it to the side. Doing so would be unwise on two fronts. On one hand, he should not be able to incinerate a middling level demon without aide. On the other, the Seeker and Templar would know he shouldn’t be able to do that. He shoves himself off the ground, taking mental stock of himself. No lacerations, just some pain that indicates he’d bruise later. Shaking his head, Solas takes up his staff once more and sends fire, not strong enough to destroy them out right but of the proper power, toward the demons. He flings spells while circling the field, water soaking his wraps and legs as he does so.

Shield after shield is dropped on the Templar-Mage duo as Jayla is continually interrupted in closing the rift. She pulls, and pulls at it while her face becomes paler and paler. It makes Solas grit his teeth and shove just a bit more power into his attacks. Surprisingly, the Templar seems to notice Jayla’s plight as well, and attacks with more ferocity whenever a demon comes near them. At least the boy is somewhat capable of doing his job.

The rift snaps shut abruptly just as the rumble and smell of ozone filter into the river. Panicked, Solas twists and turns, looking for the Pride that might have escaped. When none appear, he focuses in on the dazed demons who have been cut off from their home, most of their power. They die easily after that.

Much to Solas’ displeasure it is the Templar who helps Jayla to stand and whom she leans against while catching her breath. The fight had taken much from her, and Solas doesn’t begrudge her needing the rest, he would simply prefer it be away from the Templar. In an attempt to have just hat happen, he wades over to where they stand.

“Jayla, let me heal your wounds.” He pitches his voice low, soothing, reaching a hand out to her while the other stows his staff. Rickson makes no move to relinquish the Herald and she only looks at Solas in a daze. There is a long silence as Solas waits for her to speak and watches as those dark eyes he like so much slowly eek back to reality.

“Yes please.” She mutters the words, but it’s all the elven man needs to scoop her out of the Templar’s hold and carry her to the bank. Her eyes are drooping, adrenalin leaving her the expenditure of mana getting to her. The young woman has every right to be tired, however, they’ve at least got to get her up the bank before they can rest again.

“Da’halla, stay awake for me.” He is careful as he sets her down, easing her back to lay on the grass before letting his hands hover over her. He can feel the warmth she puts off, but it is not as much as usual. For a mage without a chosen school, Jayla runs as warm as most fire mages do. His lips frown as he focuses his power and looks for the damage wrought in the skirmish. Nerve damage from the ice, her back has gashes that he immediately begins to knit together, pushing magic to make sure nothing malevolent would stay in her body. But the nerves, because they are so delicate come last. He carefully pours his magic into her skin, barely noticing that the Herald has fallen asleep on the river bank.

If Varric were a betting man, and he is, watching Solas’ reaction to Rickson caring for Jayla would give him ideas. As it is, he’s memorized the scene to write when they hit camp. It’s too good. Valiant Templar with the Heroine in his arms, her lover staring on jealously? So what if Solas isn’t actually the girl’s lover, he certainly acts like it, hovering and protective with those lingering looks. If the elf didn’t look at her like she was the sun, Varric wouldn’t label him lover.

But Solas looks at Jayla as if she is the sun itself, as if her very presence is a gift. Truly that’s not a wrong way to think of her. She is a gift. Had she not been pulled into their world, they’d be screwed. The original mark bearer being dead and all. Her explanation made more sense of the way the Fade had shown the Divine’s death. The little elven woman who stood defiant, coming when she heard the call for help. He mentally flinches as he recalls the sound of an arrow being loosed while seeing the woman straighten from grabbing something.

His head shakes and he watches the mysterious Fade mage pick up the Herald as if she weighed nothing. It was curious how a man who looked so spindly had so much strength. Another mystery to be added to the man that is Solas. Whenever they were done with this quest, if they survived closing the hole in the sky, the Herald’s tale was going to be one full of intrigue and unanswered questions.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're moving farther into the story, but our dear hero is still resisting some key things for her survival. At least she hasn't broken down yet, right? Right.
> 
>  
> 
> I have such plans, it's just getting them onto the word document for you all to read thats the trouble!


	18. When it comes to us - Peace is a luxury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they can't go a damn month without fighting.

When Jayla recovers her strength, the foothold in the Farms has been set up. Inquisition soldiers mill about, perhaps a half dozen or so – the advance complement, she can’t quite tell from sound alone. Her Templar is sitting beside her tent. She can hear him running a whet stone against his blade. Thinking of him makes her nose wrinkle and brows furrow. He had stood over her, and taken quite a few hits that would have taken her head from her shoulders. He protected her, and never once barking an order at her.

It didn’t quite make sense to Jayla. She’s heard all the stories, read a good portion of the manifestos and histories now. Some artfully written, enough to keep her engaged well into the night prior to the fire and upending of her life (again). Others were not. Either way, she’d read them. Mages are rightful terrified of Templars. How many stories of abuse were reported in the manifestos, helpfully provided by the Ambassador to strengthen her cover story.

It was sickening. To read Varric’s Tale of the Champion, to feel the betrayal Varric described when Anders took things into his own hands. That had been an act of terror, no two ways about it, but there wasn’t a better avenue other than outright murdering Knight Commander Stannard. He’d mentioned the Nightingale going to Kirkwall, mentions of an Exalted March against Kirkwall if things didn’t resolve themselves. How they could have accomplished resolving things without death - that was out of the scope of Jayla’s expertise. She could defuse a situation, but a blood crazy Knight Commander? Completely out of her realm of knowledge. Still. The tranquil. The entire idea of Tranquility, the harrowings, the sheer power the human men had over their elven and human mage charges was terrifying. Enough that Jayla had biases before that fire.

Cullen had just reinforced them. The elder Templar who died- he reinforced her fear. Rickson is an anomaly to Jayla. He is young enough of face to be about her age, and the man hardly speaks…But that might be her fault.  Letting out a heavy breath her hand lifts and scrubs at her face, working away the remnants of sleep.  She needed to train more, not just her magic, but her body as well. Walking was well and good, but she is still tiring faster than she’d like. Certainly, faster than the others.

“So, you’re awake, we were beginning to wonder if you’d be out another three days.” Varric. Jayla rolls her eyes, head turning to see him sitting watch? Over her? They must have been quite worried. She sighs heavily and turns her head into her pillow – oh. Her eyes blink rapidly and she pulls away shoving herself upright, well, father upright. Solas. He was leaning against the pole, eyes shut, face lax - sleeping.

“He refused to let you be. Healed your skin from the ice damage, the cuts on your back and then bundled you against himself, complaining you weren’t putting off enough heat. He was worried you’d lost too much blood. Spoon fed you a quarter of a blood replenishment potion.” The dwarven man’s eyes are glinting, concerned but upset. Her mind flashes back to their …tense conversation the night before. Varric cared for her, and his protective nature, that big old heart of gold he liked to hide behind chest hair was what drove his irritation every time she ended up under the care of a healer. Which to be honest with herself, and the universe around them, was too often. At this rate, it would take her years to figure out who killed the Divine and how to close the Breach. Years this world likely doesn’t have.

“Solas is – a better friend than I can ask for. You are a better friend in all this than I can ask for.” Her voice is soft and low, a tired edge to it. She leans against her healer again, a little dizzy and a little to soak in his warmth, the comfort of his presence. “I have to be sane after this Varric. I need to not be some crazed and wild thing that doesn’t blink when blood is spilled. If – no – when this over and when I go home – I need to still be _me_.”

There was more to that. Jayla needed to be still be the woman she was when she came into the Fade. Serious but fun, carefree but serious. She need to still be the quiet advocate for people who could not do so for themselves and desperately the Herald wanted to not be a killer. How often did she need to make it clear – she’d never been a soldier, would never be a soldier? Killing wasn’t a normal part of her life. Yes, it was talked about on the news, on the internet, among outraged friends in what seemed to feel as if it were common place, but the reality is murder isn’t an everyday occurrence. Violence of some variation, there is an argument to be made that is far more common, but even then.

“Princess, you gotta do better than this.” Varric sounds strained, and dark eyes flick up to him, see how drawn his face is. It makes her wince. “Beyond you having the shit that will fix this colossal cock-up, you need to realize your life is important. More important than not taking someone else’s. More important than draining yourself of energy in the middle of a fight where we are outnumbered or out powered.”

“I’ll do my best. It’s all I can say Varric. It’s all I can promise – that I will do my best to survive this world and the Breach.” Guilt makes her curl more securely against Solas’ side, face half buried in the man’s tunic. He was like a shield for her in this moment, and Jayla would always be grateful for that – for the knowledge he shares, for the companionship he gives.

“I guess that’s all I can ask, Princess. Get some rest. Cassandra and I are going to go talk to Dennet. With some luck, we’ll be out of the Hinterlands by the end of the week.”

Because Varric’s luck is shit, it takes three weeks to get the soldiers down to build the towers that Dennet’s man demands but only a day and night to locate the Wolves plaguing the farmers. Jayla had insisted they not touch the wolves, and that day they’d all come out with scrapes and bruises, but quite a bit of swag as well. The den had been a smuggling hiding place, or maybe it had been the best hiding place the locals could think of, but the gold, trinkets, and supplies were too good to pass up.

There had been great bushes of thorny almost rose plants that Solas had fallen on and carefully harvested every flower from. Crystal Grace he’d said it was called, pressing them with his magic and sticking them into this pouch or that one. Jayla had like the smell, so much so that she’d taken one from his hands before he could press it, and weaved it into a crown braid for the day. But, that was two days ago, and now that the patrols are in place, the towers being constructed, the group of four was ready to head back to Haven for a time.

“What do you mean you cannot ride?” Cassandra is flabbergasted and the Herald shifts uncomfortably under the Seeker’s look.

“My people have moved beyond the use of horses and the like as their primary mode of transportation.” Jayla’s hands wring together in front of her, and Solas looks on with mild interest. Not knowing how to ride was rather common place among the lower classes. If one could afford a horse, one lived a comfortable life, or as comfortable as their circumstances allowed. Cassandra is well aware of this fact, but still, the Seeker had assumed off Jayla’s stories of herself she came from a well to do family. She carried herself that way, and her parents had allowed her to pursue the arts rather than marry or go into some kind of service.

“We haven’t the time to teach you. You’ll ride with m-“

“Seeker Pentaghast, if I may interject?” The apostate that has taken such interest in their Herald’s wellbeing steps forward. His placidness rubs at the Seeker. No one was so calm all of the time, he was – emotional but didn’t display it and it bothered her.

“If you must, Solas.” Her impatience is something she will never Master, nor does she attempt to any longer at her age.

“Your armor will not make for a comfortable ride for the Herald. She will fare better with Master Tethras I think.”

Both Jayla and Cassandra startle at the suggestion. Jayla more than Cassandra, and even the Seeker – usually a touch slower to pick up on such things, notices. It makes sense why the girl would be surprised. She and the apostate have been attached to one another since the incident with Cullen. They complimented one another. From their fire to their quiet moments of rest. She’s not so blind as to not see it.

Solas is so careful with the girl, with Jayla. He hovers when he thinks no one will notice, and readily gives the young woman his attention. The Seeker has seen the way they curl around one another as they sleep, when she slid open the tent to wake Solas for his watch on the nights he has a place in the rotation. The Seeker has witnessed the adoration in Jayla’s eyes whenever Solas launches into one of his stories of the fade or when he banters with Varric.

It’s plain for anyone with eyes they favor one another, and yet they will not admit it, nor act on it properly. Still, he had never pushed Jayla away in quite such an overt manner. Subtle machinations to get the woman to open up to the villagers, the inquisition soldiers, but he’s never given the Herald cause to make a face as she is making now.

“I don’t know about that Chuckles. While the pony would be a good idea for Jayla’s starter mount, riding with me is a bad idea. I’m the least accomplished rider we’ve got.” Varric’s smooth words cut into the quiet tension radiating between the other three. For once, Cassandra feels the need to praise the man. He was usually so opportunistically upsetting. But the longer he focuses on being a good guiding force for Jayla, the less it seems like he lies to everyone he meets.

“We haven’t another pony to give the Herald, nor will a spirited mount endear her to the concept of riding.” The patient tone the elder mage uses makes Cassandra’s eyebrow tick. He was avoiding offering himself as an alternative riding partner. But why? He slept with Jayla every night, there should be no cause for him to shy away from being near her in the light of day. Or did he somehow thing no one had noticed they shared a tent?

“Or –“ the Herald’s voice cuts Varric off, and her eyes are trained on the ground. It is not the first time the Herald has looked so young, and likely not the last. The look, the way she shrinks in on herself, makes Cassandra want to box Solas around the ears for making her feel such. “I could just walk?”

“Absolutely not!” Four voices chorus their protest together and Jayla flinches before sighing audibly. Solas is being strange and she can’t figure out what has made him so. Almost two months of sleeping side by side now and he still keeps his distance during the daylight hours unless she’s injured. Granted, that has slacked off little by little, but. She squeezes her eyes shut a moment and draws a steadying breath.

“Cassandra can’t leave off her armor any more than I can. And riding either behind or in front of her is going to leave me with some bruises. Varric is more skittish than the horse is about this so I’m not going with him. Which leaves you, Solas…”

“My lady, if you would allow me the honor.” Rickson’s voice cuts her off and Jayla’s eyes become saucers.

“But your armor!”

“I will survive without it for a two-day trip, my lady.” His jaw is set and Cassandra is momentarily impressed with the youth. He was the Herald’s most steadfast guardian. That has been proven. It amuses her to see the sour look on Solas’ face when Rickson speaks up, and does not quail under Jayla’s look or protest.

“Well, if you’re sure, all right.” Her words are hesitant, but strong, the dark woman making her decision. Cassandra is quietly pleased, it will serve Solas right for suggesting Jayla ride with anyone but himself. She sees the way his hands twitch, the movement to make a fist aborted. It seems the apostate is not as placid as she’d thought.

“All right, now that riding arrangements are settled, let’s get underway. If we are lucky we will be halfway to the town before the night falls.” Cassandra smiles, it’s no more than a twitch of her lips, as she turns back to her mount. The others break to tend their mounts and adjust the packs as well, though Solas seems to lag. Cassandra can’t help the soft disgusted noise that leaves her. Sometimes men could be so blind.

“My lady,” he smiles at the Herald, offering her a boost onto their mount. He hadn’t been convinced they would ever have a working relationship, she was so cold and cut off when it came to Templars. Not that he could blame her, everyone had heard what had occurred in Haven. Still, the young knight was hurt she distrusted all his sworn brothers so readily.

“Thank you,” her hand settles in on his shoulder and she boosts herself rather inelegantly into the saddle they would share. He didn’t mind it. Not that he was thinking lasciviously about the Herald of Andraste. That would be… sacrilegious at the very least. No. Eric was not pleased to share his horse with the Herald for reasons beyond knowing she would be safe with him.

He waits for her to settle before swinging himself into the seat behind her, his cuirass and leg guards laid across the Herald’s mount which was currently being used as a light pack horse. When the Seeker sees, all are settled, she takes the lead, Eric nudging his mount to follow her. For some time, all are silent. The Herald is stiff before him, her breath shallow and measured, as if she is afraid of him, to touch him anywhere she can’t avoid it.

“My lady –“

“Yes, Rickson?” Her voice is strained and the Templar sighs.

“I was wondering my lady, if you could tell me of your people. They seem quite fascinating. What has replaced horses among them?” It was a grasp at straws, she so often asserts her people are vastly different from those here in Ferelden. As he’s never been to Rivain, he is quite fascinated. The question, however, doesn’t make her relax. If anything, her breath stops for at least a full minute.

“W-we.” She swallows, and he can see her fingernails digging into the pommel of the saddle. “We fashioned carts that were enchanted, whenever someone sat in a certain place, it would move for us. It saved the horses from being overworked, and we could get places faster than a horse would be able to.”

Rickson feels his eyes widen. Enchanted carts? A place where her people – it made no sense. He had heard she was a survivor of Dairsmuid. If she survived the Circle Annulment, how could her people be so readily exposed to magic? “Forgive me, my lady, I thought. Well, there is a rumor that you survived an annulment. I –“

“I did.” Her shoulders hunch, hair obscuring her face. “But, I – I had privileges. The good ones always did. We could – we were allowed into the town nearest us. With our guards, of course, so much so the town was steeped in magic. No one feared us – it was a sanctuary.”

Solas and Varric look at the Herald in alarm before looking at one another. Eric can’t miss it. They clearly weren’t informed of her people any more than he’d been. When she looks up, the men studiously do not look at her and it makes the Templar’s brow crease. Ser Solas was quite close with the Herald, how would he of all people not know this about her life?

“I have never heard of such a thing, my lady. It sounds as if it were a fantasy. Some utopia. Dairsmuid was notorious among the Templar.”

“They lied.” Her voice is steel and it makes him tense. “The older mages of the circle, they were useless when it came to teaching, but none of us were stupid enough to practice forbidden magic. The annulment – it was for nothing but fear. A chance to keep the mages where they ought to be in the Templars’ opinion and that was dead.”

She’d been briefed about Dairsmuid, the annulment, all of it. Josephine hadn’t left her ass out in the cold on the subject of her origins. Her public origin at least. Varric and Solas hadn’t been privy to the details, and Jayla’d soon told them the truth. Her guard doesn’t need the truth. He needs to be kept firmly in the dark.

“My lady, I am sorry.” The sincerity of those word cut into Jayla. She wasn’t a real mage, not part of a circle, not really a hedgewitch or even Thedosian, but here was her jailer apologizing for death she hadn’t seen. He was apologizing for his fellows – it stuns her into silence.

The ride is once again silent, but some of the tension leaks out of the small dancer. She’s so tired of being on guard. Of keeping her emotions in check. More in check than they usually were. To keep her upset bottled, it was making her miss lessons with Command and Strength. More and more she’s been dancing away her dreams, knowing Action was somewhere in the crowd watching her.

It makes his gut twist violently to hear Jayla speak with the Templar boy. Action is sullen at the back of his mind refusing to so much as shift his metaphysical head at the mage he was tethered to. Action had pushed for Solas to scoop Jayla onto the horse with them. Solas in a panic had suggested Varric of all people. Now he must listen as Jayla spins lies to keep the Templar’s curiosity sated. But oh, how his ears burn when the boy makes his apology. The soft gasp that it elicited from the Herald made his hands clench into fists.

He can barely look at her, and resolutely ignores the pair when next the boy strikes up conversation again. His teeth grind and the tendon in his jaw jumps wildly. Solas could lie to himself, and say it was not the situation he was displeased with but the state of the world that a mage could be twisted into a mage killer so easily. But it is not what has him bothered, for the moment he can overlook the travesty that is the Templar order. That he has deprived himself of Jayla’s company, her words, is what angers him.

“Chuckles,” Varric pulls up beside him, his head about level with Solas’ mount’s back. “You glare much harder and something is going to catch on fire.” At least the child of stone has the kindness to keep his voice down. Solas isn’t sure he can take humiliation on top of his own stupidity.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Messere Tethras.” His words are tight, voice kept in a strangle hold to stay even and at his usual tenor. Anger always made his voice go dark, and he cannot allow that to occur.

“Sure.” Varric is staring at the side of his head. He can feel the eyes on him. Only now does Action deign to reenter conversation with him. _This is your fault. If she does not sleep beside us tonight know I will be most displeased. Perhaps I will not let you merge o watch her in our dreams._

The elf grits his teeth, baring them without realizing it as he berates his spirit companion for the threat. He had made a mistake, he was, it seems, rather prone to them. Now he is paying the price. Isn’t that just how his life goes?

When the party stops for the night, Solas is fast to get his tent up, assuming, hoping, that Jayla will share it again. He can’t smother the little flare in his chest that says she will, that she forgives him everything. Or has up until today. In the nine or ten hours, they’d ridden he’d not looked at her but the once when she spoke of Dairsmuid and he had not felt her eyes on him. It felt wrong. It is wrong. Annoyed with himself all over again, Solas stalks off with a bark of explanation that he was going hunting.

Jayla is lifted from her shared mount with Rickson – whom she has learned is actually named Eric. Her limbs are stuff, her ass is sore as all hell, and Solas is. His aura is waving angrily around him, she dares not touch it with her own, remembering all too well what occurred last time he felt this angry. What kills her, is she’s got no idea what he’s angry about. He’d been reticent all day, and she only knows because she snuck the odd glance at him. No more than a moment, to take in those eyes and the way his jaw jumped.

Now she smooths her hands over her face, and all but throws her pack into their tent. If worst came to worst, she could share with Cassandra. There were worse fates than sleeping next to a woman who woke up sword first from nightmares or sudden noises. Straightening, she volunteers for last watch, something she never does out of fear of what will happen if they are attacked on her watch, and stalks into the forest. Eric had mentioned a stream just to the west. Jayla needed a good rinse down, and the water would soothe her nerves.

Solas can hear Jayla crash through the underbrush on her way to the stream. He’d heard her ask after one, and summarily avoided the banks. He already has several rabbits in his grasp, and an unfortunate fennec who was caught in the crossfire. It would have been a waste to leave it, and so it hangs with the other game off his staff, now slung over his shoulder. He can’t stem is annoyance with himself. With the situation that he put into motion. Long fingers press against his eyes, staving off a headache that threatens him. It was as if he were some kind of youth, constantly miss stepping around a pretty girl. That hasn’t been the case in eons. And Jayla – while breathtaking – is not for him. Will never be for him, no matter the way Action pushes at him for her.

In the end, when they sleep – it is on opposite sides of their tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was not the intended chapter I had planned. It was completely, utterly different and these two assholes wouldn't let it happen. Oh no, can't go exploring the fade together, nah, let's fight instead without even fighting.  
> But hey, Rickson reveals his first name!


	19. Sleep beside me, Live beside me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jayla dreams, Solas knows better for once, there is cuddling, exposition, and..children?
> 
> So I merged the original chapter 19 with the next chapter. It is a smoother transition.

Action doesn’t give Solas the option of hiding away in their sanctuary within the fade. The wolf slides into his human skin and stalks them toward Jayla’s dream. Her mind has ever been a beacon to them, but tonight, she is yelling for Action. Solas doesn’t fight it. There’s no point, Action has been sullen all day, and now that Jayla is on the other side of their tent – this was to be expected. The spirit he shared life with did not idly stand by when something he did not like was happening.

Again, when they break the barrier of Jayla’s dream, oppressive heat welcomes them. Drums welcome them this time, but not the pounding bass that had been present in her music. These were real drums, the kind made with hide and wood. The familiarity of it makes both man and spirit pause. They have to check to make sure this is indeed _Jayla’s_ dream they have walked into and not someone else’s. It’s jarring, the rhythm, the pounding of feet that conjure memories neither had visited in what felt like millennia.

She’s landed herself back in her memory. A twisted memory, but memory none the less. A recital, one of many she’d taken part in, trying to fit in with the other native girls. Except Jayla was not a ‘true’ native. She’s mixed, always would be, and that killed any hope of her being native. Hawai’ian father, Black-Tahitian mother, she’s a bastard of three cultures and none of them are particularly interested in her. Were. Too dark to be Tahitian, too dark to be a 'pretty' black girl, to bougie to be a black girl, to mainland to be a proper Hawai'ian... At least this place, Thedas, it’s more interested in if you’ve got magic, pointed ears or horns. Skin isn’t a factor. Just the cartilage bits and what sings in your blood.

 Her mind pushes those thoughts away, and she waits in a gymnasium with too bright lights, her hair an artful riot on her head, her long grass skirt shifting quietly as she fidgets with her other decorations. The high school girls danced first, then the middle schoolers, then the little ones. That’s how the recital went, each set of them having a part of the story to tell. She is swept up in it, when the others start the recital.

Solas, Action, they have to shield their eyes as they come into the dream properly. The light is harsh and doesn’t give the same memory of heat as the sun or fire would. The building is strange, and the way the people sit on the stands reminds them of a great colosseum used for teaching and to view artistic displays. But these are not made of crystal or stone, they are wooden, hollow, but teaming with humans.  As is common with Jayla, this dream holds no taste of the magic, no touch of the veil. They both know it’s there, lingering far from her mind, but in here it is as if it doesn’t exist.

The drums pick up in intensity for a moment, a young man dressed – dressed as the very oldest of the People takes center stage. The words are wrong, a language neither can hope to understand, but he knows this scene. Action knows this scene. The Spirit is older, and has seen this – something very like this. The infancy of the elves had been smattered with displays like this. The proud declarations, the drums. What is missing is a lush forest instead of strangely painted wooden slats beneath their feet.

It passes in a whirl of activity. Different groups their feet slapping gently against the wood, whips swinging, rolling at an astonishing pace while their hands moved in a juxtaposition of grace. The boys, their movements are reminiscent of the first warriors, there are differences, the aggression is different, the pride is different. Different and yet entirely the same.

When Jayla is spotted, front and center with her head held high amongst a sea of differing shades, one of the darkest in the room, the memory takes on a bitter taste for the man and spirit. She dances with fire, and dedication to it that isn’t surprising anymore. But the motivation is different. They can see it in her eyes. There is a need in her eyes, a determination to -  

This is personal. Solas surges to the fore of their mind, and pulls his spirit away. This is something they should not be watching. Something they should not know. Not yet, perhaps not ever. Jayla is an intensely private woman, for all that she flaunts her skin without a care in the world, she does not flaunt herself. The pieces they have learned are precious gems.

Solas is not stupid enough to steal such information for himself. The spirit and man creep out of the dream, looking back at the sphere when they’ve left before wandering off to Wisdom’s realm. With some luck, their oldest friend will speak with them tonight, or at the very least welcome their company. They shift outside of one another when they are a safe distance from their – from Jayla’s mind. The drumming, the words in an alien language all become faint, and then get wiped away completely.

When Jayla wakes up, she is plastered against Solas, cheek against bare chest, his arms curled around her, his face tilted toward her as he sleeps. The anger she felt yesterday is there, but dull. It had been a petty thing to be upset about. In the grand scheme of things – Solas is her friend, her teacher, and traveling companion. The man is around her all day every day. A horse ride on the way back to Haven would not break that.

Her eyes trace over his features. Sleeping, Solas looks so much younger. His eyes have signs of crow’s feet starting, but he isn’t glaring or squinting in the sunlight, so the lines are smoothed out, his brow isn’t furrowed as he attempts to answer some question or make sense of some wild speculation. His mouth is lax, no frown marring it, nor that slight smile of his lighting his face up.

When she’d first met Solas, she’d thought him very pale indeed. Practically as white as the snow on the mountain side. Now, she can see he has color to him. His freckles are darker, his skin turning a gentle golden tone, warmer than most suntans, but still. He isn’t some sickly pale thing. Not that he could ever be mistaken for sickly. Her hand twitches, the urge to reach up and trace that dusting of freckles rising in her. It is an urge that is ruthlessly stomped down.

She’d said it weeks ago, and she’ll say it now. This wasn’t going to happen. They were in the middle of a war, and this – attraction – would only make things harder. Harder on her, harder on him, they literally fought against some random enemy every day. There was no chance that someday one of them wouldn’t get hurt – extremely hurt, and…

Her eyes screw shut at the dark turn her mind has taken. She isn’t going to think about the what ifs. There are too many of those to consider them all, and right now, they just need to keep barreling forward. The hinterlands region is mostly stable, when the towers are done, the promised mounts will be sent to Haven, Dennet in tow.

She shoves her face more securely against Solas’ chest, willing away the anxiety of the situation she’s been dumped in. Find horses, stabilize a whole region, push demons back into the fade or kill them, seal all the little rips the big rip made…with four people and maybe two hundred scouts scattered in the winds of Ferelden to accomplish it all. Jayla’s never been one for tactics, the best she did was in multiplayer strike team games, and while those went well, it was nothing in comparison to this. Nothing could have prepared her for this.

The silence washes over her after a while of internal back and forth on various topics, all seeming to circle back to the man she is curled around. It’s maddening. He takes a breath that’s deeper than the others, and the muscles under her hand distract her. He shifts in his sleep and suddenly she is sprawled across his torso and knows more about his physical being than she probably ought to, his arm low around her middle, hand settled alarmingly close to her ass.

They’re walking a line. Jayla isn’t stupid, they flirt, they sleep together, he doesn’t dream with her, but she’s positive there is a reason for that. One beyond her dealings with spirits. Solas has told her of his own interactions with them, of his friendship with Wisdom, a time of companionship with Knowledge during his youth when a plague had hit his village and rendered him bed ridden for months. The man is no stranger to spirits, nor is he afraid of them.

As far as she can tell. Solas is only worried about her interactions with spirits because of Action. Action who – lord. If there is a person who poses more of a threat to her than Solas its Action. His skin form is, it’s distracting, that’s the best way to describe him. He’s tall like Solas is, broad, a little bit more defined. Where Solas is, sun kissed, Action is wonderful rich earth in his tonality.  Piercing red eyes and a smile that could melt panties off a woman – that spirit is a problem. A good problem, but a problem all the same.

Falling for a spirit is bad news. Falling for anyone is asking for them to have a short life right now. She doesn’t need to be told that – Jayla’s read this story before. Heroine and a broken man riding off into the sunset together after saving the world. They make movies about this shit. Americans let them both live, or let them die in each other’s arms. The Chinese – they sometimes like to up the pain factor, one lives, one dies in some fashion.  She’s seen some movies were they both die -  leagues and leagues away from one another.

Jayla would like to live thank you very fucking much. So, that means her lady bits are very firmly not getting any closer to anyone else’s. Her heart isn’t getting closer to anyone else’s than it is right now. This – is safe. Enjoying Solas’ company, his teaching, the comfort of him sleeping here with her. This is safe and this keeps her moving.

“You think very loudly, da’asha.”  A sleep laden rumble makes her blink, and her hand is – shit. It’s been settled on Solas’ cheek, thumb swiping back and forth along his cheekbone. Those pretty blue eyes aren’t open enough for her to see the blue properly, but she knows what they look like. Her face heats up and her hand withdraws slowly.

“Sorry. It’s been a weird couple of weeks. Hard not to think so loudly.” Or so often to be perfectly frank. It was as if her mind was going all the time, no off button. Sure she slept, dreamt of things not relevant to her waking duties these days but often.. Her life was consumed by this idea if she wasn’t constantly watching out something awful was going to happen.

“You needn’t be sorry.” His hand smooths up and down her back. It’s clear the elder mage is half asleep – normally he rolls away as soon as his mind is aware of their positioning. He was always a gentleman, always aware of the distance that should be kept between them. Today – this morning, his hands linger, pressed against skin where her sleeping shirt has ridden up. “It is to be expected, da’halla.”

He blinks lethargically, warm and comfortable, more than pleased that Jayla hasn’t removed herself from his embrace. This is not a new scene to wake to, being curled or entangled with this woman. He took more comfort than he ought to in this habit of theirs that has formed. Two months, that was all it had taken for him to forget this world was doomed. That now this woman, vibrant and strong, was doomed. Even now he can feel himself pushing away the grim thoughts. It is too early to be so fatalistic. He would much rather take in the glorious warmth rising in the cheeks of the face just south of his.

Action circles as always, the spirit words are the same as they ever are. She could be theirs if only Solas would get off his ass and do something to make their interest known properly. But he won’t. No one should be tied to him – and Jayla is already tied securely to him in a fashion he never wanted. Sighing, wakefulness curling around him as the young woman in his hold watches him, he takes stock of the situation.

She is half astride one of his thighs, the heat of her skin searing him even through his leggings, her stomach pressed to his side, skin against skin – her shirt. He swallows carefully, the skin beneath his hands finally registering.  Creators, if there are any, take him. Slowly, his hands move from her, the hand brushing the swell of her bottom withdrawing all together, the hand on her back sliding from under her shirt, smoothing it down with a simple movement.

“Are we the first up then?” His voice is still sleep rough, and he watches the way her pupils widen just a touch. He wants to groan and roll away from her. These things were not for him. She is not for him. For all they are bound – she is not for him.

“I don’t hear Varric and Cassandra bickering, so I think we might be. That’s a first, right?” Her lips tilt into a sweet smile, and he blesses her when she sits up. Blesses and curses the action, it sends her hair sliding over her shoulder as she half leans over him. A curtain that further hides them from the world but throws her into stark relief against the tent and the sun just behind her. She is – glorious.

“Indeed, it must be. I – would you ride with me today?” He can’t help himself, and Action is pleased. They watch as a storm brews in her eyes, feels the way her hand tenses against his stomach. She is debating staying upset with him. He wouldn’t blame her if she –

“Yes. But, we ride beside Eric.”

Never let it be said her kindness did not cut bone deep at times.

\----

The gates of Haven evoke the same feeling that getting off a plane on spring break had. That punches her in the chest, the breath whooshing out of her in shock. The joy of being home. God what was wrong with her? She thought _this_ was home? A place where she is a glorified murderer. A place where she is lauded as some kind of messiah. Fuck. _Fuck_.

“Jayla?” “My lady?” The questions, voices are stereo, a hand pressing against her stomach. She blinks rapidly, shaking her head before putting on a smile.

“Sorry. I’m just happy to be back. I’ve got a date with the Singing Maiden’s bath tub. I’m going to do the dirtiest things in there.” Humor put them off the scent. Well, it put Eric off the scent. Solas is like a blood hound, the hand on her stomach not moving until he’s dismounting. His hands are there moments later, supporting her as she dismounts.

Supporting her after two days of riding catches up with her legs and they buckle. “Shit, fuck. Goddamn it.” Her cursing makes him chuckle, Cassandra and Varric shaking their heads at her not fifty paces to their left.

“You should have said something, Herald. We could have taken the trip slower, it would have been more forgiving on you.” Cassandra clucks her tongue, arms crossing over her breastplate as she watches them with a critical eye. Jayla is clinging to Solas, in fact, the man is bearing 80% of her weight as she wills her body to get with the program once more.

“No way. Date with the bath tub, very important. It’s gonna be **warm** , Cassandra. _Warm water_. Nothing will keep me from that.” Her words are a touch breathless, lips twitching as the pins and needles set in alongside the bone deep ache of having ridden to long without reprieve. No one misses that. And Solas’ hands glow for a moment, banishing the circulation issue she’d just barely started to deal with. It’s enough to make her sigh low and long enough for the other mage’s ears to pink up.

Testing herself, pushing away from Solas’ torso, hands out just in case she had to catch herself, Jayla is pleased to note some of her stiffness is gone. She’s by no means going to run to the singing maiden or their cabin, but she can make it under her own steam. She will make it under her own steam come hell or high water at this point. She’s had too many days where she had to be carried, coddled, she’s more than a bit pissed about it truth be told and the second she confirms with another step that she won’t collapse, Jayla’s hands are grabbing for her pack and she’s walking toward the gates of Haven. There are protests behind her, but she doggedly does not listen, powering through the jolts of pain radiating through muscles that haven’t been stretched properly and joints that had been over stretched for days now.

“Princess is a stubborn shit, isn’t she?” Varric sighs, laughter in his eyes as Cassandra and Solas call after the Herald. The Templar, well that kid is torn, go trail after his charge, or report to the Commander. There is a war in the way he walks. Cullen is doing drills, they can all see him across the yard, and Rickson? Rickson makes an abrupt turn to follow Jayla.

“Well I’ll be damned…” Varric shakes his head, the corners of his mouth tilting in approval. That kid had shown signs of loyalty to Jayla over orders, but this just proved it. A Templar _actually_ doing his job – in the middle of this damned war. The wonder will never cease.

“Should the boy not be going to report to the Commander for his relief?” Solas’ brows are scrunched together, nose wrinkled with confusion. Varric spares him a glance, before chuckling out right. He sidles up to the taller man and claps him on the back.

“Princess gained a real Templar in him. He’s gonna keep her safe – from everyone else. That means Curly, Chuckles.” Again, a flash of exasperation flashes through Solas’ eyes, something the dwarven rogue doesn’t miss and has seen. The elf was a ball of contradictions, lies, and probably a little trauma mixed in for fun. Anyone who sat down with him for long enough could see it. There is a sadness that just hangs on him, and a distance from people that isn’t practiced or feigned.

It’s like Solas just woke up and can’t remember how to be a person. Which – shit, there are stranger things in the world than a man who lived his life half in the fade not knowing how to deal with people. Like the hole in the damned sky, the Seeker not screaming at him for a week straight, and Leliana with her pet nug. Schmooples, Maker’s ass the woman makes no sense.

“You better get to your cabin Chuckles, get freshened up while you can before Jayla makes it back. Wicked Grace tonight? Or do you think we’ll be writing reports into the morning?”  It’s small talk, plain and simple as they hand their mounts over to the very recently acquired stable hands. Packs are grabbed as the two men exit the building. Cassandra had slipped out somewhere between Jayla leaving and Solas questioning Eric’s actions.

They walk slowly, while both were accustomed to riding, that didn’t mean they weren’t sore. Take a couple of months off from riding daily and your body forgets the feeling. Clearly. Varric hadn’t been aware. More’s the pity, he would have just bought some Kirkwall nags to bring along on Cassandra’s merry ‘take the dwarf prisoner to answer to the Divine for his friend’s crimes’ parade.

“I am sure, from the sound of things, Jayla will be occupied for some time. Her people are much cleaner than the average human from what I gather. She did her laundry four times in the last week while bathing in whatever stream she could find. I’ve not yet seen another person so devoted amongst her people to cleanliness.” The comment is – well thought out. It sparks Varric’s interest. He knew that Princess and Chuckles mooned over each other – but to know how often a woman did her laundry? He didn’t even know that about Bianca. Granted, he didn’t live with the woman, but he’s sure Hawke has no idea how often Anders does their laundry. That was borderline creepy.

“And as for the boy – I suppose we should be glad his loyalty lies with her. He never once drew his sword on her after the elder man died, and there were several nights where Jayla had a bad dream or two.” That is almost grudging in the way the elf admits it. Varric is still creeped out by the fact Solas not only dreams in the Fade, he actively explores it – and can jump into another’s dream. It’s downright strange, and not for the first time, Varric is happy dwarves don’t dream. Or if he did, he’s glad it’s nothing like what the humans and elves deal with.

“She’s getting better though, right?”

“Better, perhaps, at bottling the negative reactions she has to things.”

“Fuck.”

“Yes, that is a rather apt way to describe the situation brewing in her.” Pale, paler than normal, and drawn, Solas looks his age for a moment. It was easy to forget the elf was in his late thirties or early forties.

“How –“

“I do not know. It is up to her to let go of her pain, but she holds it close, as if punishing herself. I can feel it every time her magic brushes mine. We may want to suggest she not train with blades any further…” Solas does truly look at a loss as to how to help Jayla. “Killing men and women in such an intimate manner is weighing on her more than when she kills with magic. The distance might prove useful. It might keep her out of mortal danger as well.”

“Dunno about that, Solas.” The usage of his name grabs the elf’s attention. Varric pretends not to notice, barreling a head while trying to banish even darker thoughts. “She wants to know. It’s torture, but she has to see the light die in their eyes. I think you’re right in saying she tortures herself with it. Like mourning every life that she takes will keep her firmly on the ground. But – it’s going to kill her if she doesn’t let up. I don’t think Jayla will ever be a warrior who doesn’t flinch at death.”

“She is braver than most,” Solas starts with a slight smile on his lips, like he didn’t know he’s doing it. “Keeping her heart soft, in the middle of a war? Most would run or encase themselves in onyx to keep the pain away, to make it so they felt no guilt. So they can kill without remorse.”

“Bravery doesn’t keep you alive, Solas.”

“I know. And, I think we could all use a break tonight, Messere Tethras. Wicked Grace will be a good reprieve.”

The men part ways at the Tavern, Varric going in to reserve the bath for both himself and Solas after Jayla was done. They all needed a good long soak. Anything to wash off the last two months. They’d all become laden down with trinkets and junk to sell off for what they could, scavenged armor and cloth for similar reasons. He retreats to his own cabin to sort what will get the most coin from what he’ll have to sell hard to get a gold for.

When Jayla said, she needed a bath, she hadn’t been messing around. Yes, she dunked herself in every stream she came across, cleaned her clothes as often as she could, but it just wasn’t the same. She didn’t feel clean like she does when the water was warm and the wash cloth – hastily grabbed from the cabin – is clean. The young woman scrubs herself half raw in the tub of water. As clean as others deemed her, the water of the tub becoming cloudy told her she needed to invent soap on a rope here and quick.

In the end, it takes three tubs full of water. The first to get the dirt and sweat off her skin, the second to get it out of her hair – which had blood in it still, something that makes her almost retch, and the last to soak in. This tub of water is piping hot, enough that she shouldn’t be as comfortable as she is. But, that is neither here nor there. Her head lolls against the tub edge as she tries to sort herself out.

She had to train harder. That much is evident. She’d survived the Hinterlands – if barely. They’d done a lot of good there, but there was still more to be done. Caves had been looted, clues followed to hidden treasure caches and lyrium smugglers who’d had a very, very bad week. They had dealt with the Templars, dealt with the mages, planted more banners than she knew what to do with for scouts to do what they would with. Some of the monuments apparently told a story. She’d taken rubbings where she could, hoping to use the story to further her understanding of how to write and read Thedosian Common.

She kicks a leg out of the tub, immediately grimacing when she notes the hair on her legs. It was everywhere. Her legs, her underarms, her lady garden. It’s maddening. Which is another thing to do – find out if the smith could make her a razor or search for an epilation related spell. Really Jayla’s hoping for a magical solution to this. She feels like a bear.

Her mind wanders after that, setting down on this thought or that one for just moments before moving on. The dark woman barely notices the time pass and doesn’t notice at all when she draws a heat rune into the wood of the tub as it cools. The gesture is unconscious – and her knowledge of runes courtesy of Action, Command, and Strength. The more her mind wander, the less aware she is, the heavier her eyelids feel until sleep kidnaps her.

Solas was worried about Jayla. She’d been gone for two hours now. While that wasn’t cause to sound the alarm, it is enough to drive the man from the warmth of their cabin. He’d washed with the water left in their basin, so he felt more Elven and less like a dust attractant. So he doesn’t look like a haggard traveler when he heads for the Tavern. He doesn’t need to ask where the tub is located, it’s the only room available other than the kitchen, and located in what should have been the building’s attic.

His knuckles rap against the door, “Herald?” To call her Jayla would foist rumors upon them. Not there were none circulating presently, but it was – he didn’t need her tarnished because of him. There is no answer and that makes him alarmed. There wasn’t even a denial to steer him onto another trail.

“Jayla? Are you in there?” He reaches with his aura, pushing it through the door with ease, seeking the young woman out. Sure enough, his aura finds hers inside the room. It doesn’t take more than a moment for him to realize she’s fallen asleep – a dangerous thing to do. Should she slip -!

The urge to throw open the door and wake her hits him square in the solar plexus. Every instinct he has it seems is still squarely focused on her, to keep her safe. It’s why he rushes down stairs and grabs Flissa. She is reluctant at first, but when he turns sad, worried eye on her, she relents. The door is eased open, and the dark locked head is tilted back toward the ceiling, one arm out of the tub, the soft steady breathing and closed eyes telling the tavern owner the woman was indeed asleep. She closes the door behind her, in Solas’ face as it happens, and approaches the sleeping Herald.

“Your worship, you’ve fallen asleep, my lady. You’re still in the tub!” She’s cautious – the Herald is a mage after all – tentatively rocking the woman’s shoulder.

Jayla hadn’t even been dreaming. Just floating in pleasant nothingness. It’s rare for her not to dream, so often preoccupied with Action, or her other spirits. Even the fear demons that occasionally broached he wards and her defenses kept her busy in the dream realm. So, to have a bit of nothing. It’s a little like a treat for the young mage.  Waking comes slowly, her nose wrinkling, mouth screwing into a displeased frown.

“Solas, leave off.” She mutters it, batting at the hand on her shoulder. Never mind he’d never woken her up like that. They typically wake up within minutes of one another.

“My lady, please wake up, you’ve been here two hours!”

To Solas, it seems as if Jayla is being rather obstinate about waking. The idea makes him smile as much as it sends up a warning flag. One of many in the last two months she’s raised for him. Her jokes and cheer, the deflection, the brooding when Varric got on her to not hesitate and take the killing blow. She is akin to pottery that has cracked, and the crack filled with metal.

What kind of metal she has thrust into the fissure to hold in her grief, he cannot say. But it worries him. He hears a splash, then twin shrieks and knows the Herald is awake. There are hushed voices, a bit of laughter and Flissa exits the room, hair clinging to her face, but no worse for wear. “She’s awake, Ser. Said she’ll be out in a bit, and not to get your knickers in a twist.” The barmaid can’t keep her lips from twitching as she delivers the Herald’s message, disappearing down the stairs within a breath.

Solas waits downstairs, darting to Jayla’s side when she finally walks down the stairs. “You, da’halla, enjoy giving me heart scares, don’t you?” The rumble of his voice makes the human shiver as she startles, deep dark eyes wide when she turns to him.

“I would never, Solas. I – I’m just exhausted. Though now I probably won’t get to sleep…” It’s huffed sullenly and Solas has the strongest urge to embrace the woman, but holds himself in check. She is not for him, and it would be inappropriate to be seen embracing the Herald of Andraste when she was just out of the bath, in the middle of a tavern.

“If you would like, I can send you into a dreamless sleep, so you may rest more fully. I imagine, as none of us wrote reports, we will be asked to give oral ones in tomorrow’s war council. You need your strength and presence of mind, da’halla.”

His words are so soft, it should be illegal. The way he looks at her sometimes, it makes her heart pound double time in her chest. But she’s gone over this with herself before. It won’t, can’t, happen. They are wading further into war, and she’s known him maybe three, or was it four, months now. She barely knows him – and yet knows him all too well. Her head shakes, a softer smile than she should let out forming on her lips.

“No, thank you, Solas. I’ll speak with the Council a while, and perhaps find Talen and Mughen for a quick session if they’re up for it. I’ll tire myself out somehow. Don’t worry after me in that respect.” Patting his chest with her hand, the Herald slips downstairs and out into the bite of the cold. Spring in the mountains is just as bad as winter.

A shiver lances up her spine and she pulls the everyday leather coat that she’d nor worn in months tighter around her. Walking through the town, she notes the blazing fires with tents around them, the merrily dancing shadows in cabin windows – and then she sees a group of children playing in far too little clothing. It makes her lips pull into a frown, and her eyes dart around the area, looking for an adult. Children here are allowed to simply roam, within villages at least, from her observation, but these are – they’re dirty. Dirtier than the average child. They look a little sad. And it’s got her moving toward them without thinking about it.

“Hey there.” Her greeting makes several children freeze, heads turning with wide eyes. Some become skittish, curling in on themselves, and one runs into the darkness without a second look. Her head tilts, brows drawing together in worry. “Where are your parents guys?”

The little faces look at her, some critically, some warily, and then look around their other dozen or so compatriots. There is a long silence, a sort of standoff between the Herald and the children. One, perhaps seven years old, clears her throat, her chin tilting, ears quivering as she addresses Jayla.

“Dead, Lady. They brought us and then the sky cracked and they never came back.” There is a quaver of grief in that little voice and it stabs Jayla in the heart. Orphans. But surely the chantry would take them? Then again, she casts a glance at the building, the advisors lived there, the mothers and the guests. They likely didn’t even think -. Well. That won’t do. Not at all.

“Do you have somewhere to stay?” She’d best check first. Solas is going to murder her, but, well. He can shove it if he doesn’t like it.

“We sleep near the biggest fire.”

Well that just sealed it. There are only a dozen. She can fit six in her bed, easily, small things that they are. Six could fit in her and Solas’ bedroll as well. She’s got some gold from their looting – she can feed them too. Maybe wash them if they’ll let her… Cloth. She needs at least three bolts. Nodding to herself, dark bright eyes look over the children.

“Would you like to come stay with me? My teacher and I – we’ve got a cabin, you could be warmer, I’ve got food,” . One of the boys pipes up, another little elfin boy, and she blinks, looking over all the children as he speaks.

“Why? Why would you feed us and let us sleep in your cabin?” He’s got shrewd eyes this one. He doesn’t trust her. And she can’t blame him. All of these children are elven. Not a single human child amongst them.

“Because it’s what’s right. No one should be cold and hungry here. Especially not with Andraste looking over us – me especially.” It’s wrong to coerce children using her status, but, they’d not trust her otherwise. Jayla isn’t stupid. She’s seen enough of this place to know you had to prove yourself to everyone, especially elves if you were a human – with good reason. She lifts a hand to show them the anchor, soft smile on her face. “What kind of Herald would I be if I let my people get hurt?”

“We ain’t your people.” The same little boy, nose scrunched, crosses his arms. He’s one of the older ones, and he’s not budging. “We’re just a bunch of knife-ears.”

Jayla sucks in a breath, dark eyes widening before her face turns stern. “Has someone said that to you? That you don’t get to be warm and safe because you’re elves? If someone has I want you to tell me, they will get punished for it. You’re little, you need people to look out for you. And yes, you are my people. My best friends are a dwarf and an elven mage. My people are the ones who need me most.”  The children shift, eyeing her with varying emotions. The young woman stands her ground, and one of the littlest takes a step forward.

“Can I have stew? Will you make my hair look like yours?”

Jayla blinks and grins widely, stooping to scoop the little girl up. “Why yes I will, _da’len_. And we can see if Miss Flissa has stew. Or I can go hunting to find some rabbits to make into stew.”

There is a moment of terror for the child, for a human to pick her up. But this is the Herald. The lady who closed the hole in the sky – sort of. It’s still up there, but it just swirls and makes the world a little greener. She’s nice, this lady, offering food, and her hair is pretty. The Herald is important, she shouldn’t waste her time on them, but it _is_ cold tonight.

“Let’s go stay with her!” The little one pipes up and makes Jayla laugh, the kindest smile she’s ever seen on a human forming on the dark woman’s face. It takes a few minutes of the children questioning Jayla a while more, before the Herald and a gaggle of elven children can be seen marching through the town. She’s got them all holding hands, the first in line holding hers, the littlest girl on her hip, and she leads them to the Tavern.

It’s raucous, noise spilling into the road in front of it and Jayla looks uneasy. She lets go of the first’s hand and looks at the two who first spoke to her. “Keep together, and stay right here. If anyone tells you to move, tell them Lady Shepard stationed you here to catch them personally and to report to the chantry.”

It’s a lie, but Jayla isn’t certain anyone would believe the kids if they said Jayla’d asked them to stay right where they were. With the littlest on her hip still, Jayla walks inside. There’s a ripple of quiet for a moment when someone catches site of her, but the black woman doesn’t acknowledge it, heading straight for Flissa. Her back is ramrod straight, her head held high, and the little girl clutched securely to her side.

“Flissa.”

“My lady.”

“I need stew enough for fourteen sent to Solas’ and my cabin. I also need a wash bin sent over. If you’ve milk, enough for twelve, and wine for two.” She would butter Solas up with wine over his house being invaded by children. It was the best course of action really. The Herald had no idea he was walking down the stairs just behind her.

Solas blinks to see a child on Jayla’s hip. He startles when he hears Flissa. “F-fourteen, my lady?” The human looks rather shocked. He can sympathize. Fourteen what, is the question. He slips into the shadows by the farthest door, ears straining over the din of soliders and working folk.

“Yes, Flissa. In an hour, and that wash basin. Don’t forget the wine. Oh, bread if you’ve got it. Just tell me how much it will be. I’ve coin this time.” There is a hard note in Jayla’s voice that makes Solas’ head tilt. What was she so adamant about? He slips out and heads for the cabin, but not before he hears a small voice.

“Lady Shepard asked us to find you, Serah. She said the council needs you up at the chantry. We’re to report to her after we found you.” A strong voice, but small, and he rounds the tavern to see what is going on. He stops dead to see eleven children staring down a guard. They range in ages, they are all elven, and – Spirits. Immediately the mage knows what Jayla has done. Part of him is annoyed. The cabin is his, technically, and the woman’s just offered it up to a gaggle of children. But, he also sees how dirty the children are, their clothes little more than rags.

He walks forward and garners the guard’s attention. “Ah there you are little ones. The Lady Shepard asked me to fetch you, worried she’d asked you to wait too long. I see you’ve found the man she asked after.” His eyes are hard on the guard, but voice soft when he speaks with the children. They seem to relax with another elf, clearly one who knows Jayla, coming for them. They edge nearer him and the door, several startling when Jayla bursts from the Tavern. Sharp eyes look over the scene and Solas is impressed, not for the first time, how the Herald rallies together.

“Solas, I see I did linger too long in securing the munchkin’s payment. But, oh, they found you Ser. Report to Cassandra and Commander Cullen at your earliest availability. They wanted a report on the status of the displaced children within Haven. They weren’t certain they’d made appropriate accommodations for them.” Her voice is like steel, eyes flashing in the dim light that surrounds her from the Tavern door.

She’s beautiful, and he is awed she is essentially calling the councilors out. These children are rather obviously alone, and here she is feeding them. Housing them, apparently, because no one else thought to. Or perhaps, in the way humans are so quick to do, these were left in the cold, while other children, _human_ children were given quarter somewhere. His hands clench behind his back at the thought. Rage wells in his breast. Diluted elven blood or not, no child should be cast aside as worthless.

He offers his hand to the nearest. “Come, _da’len_ , Lady Shepard has said she will feed you, yes? We had best get to our home, so she may do so.”

Every child’s mouth drops open at his words. There are wide eyes at that dart between him and the Herald. The Guard looks gob smacked, and Jayla is staring him down as if daring him to say something. This would hurt her reputation, he chose his words poorly, but it was the truth. The cabin is _their_ home. Not simply his, not anymore. She’s as much a right to it as he does.

A little hand slides into his and Jayla offers her hand to the next. “All right, hands held, no one left behind, half of you with Ser Solas, and half of you with me. Let’s get you warmed and washed up before we feed you.”

The woman glides past the guard with her head held high, five elven children following her as duckling do their mother, with one on her hip, the child’s face leaned against her shoulder. It’s a sight. He falls into stride with her, counting his own line of children, satisfied when he has six all holding hands.

“I should have asked –“

“No, _da’asha_. This was right. I would never hold this against you.” His voice cuts her off, and the little girl that watches him from the cocoon that is Jayla is fascinated. “It is our home, as I said, if you wish the children have a place to stay, it is within your right to offer them such. Though, I dare say it is going to be quite crowded from now on.”

The smile she gives him is worth the headaches the children will undoubtedly cause him. It is worth that and more.

It takes Jayla several hours, even with Solas’ help, to get the children squared away. There is eating, making sure all have their fill, and then the cleaning of them. Jayla tears into the extra bedding left in the cabin’s corner to make shifts. It is a sight. Children draped in muslin, waists belted as she settles them under the furs of her bed. Six go into the bed, and six into their paired bedrolls. Hours. Buckets upon buckets of water, patience he did not know the young woman had going into getting them kids clean, answering their questions, and then telling them a story and bidding them the sweetest of dreams.

He rightly assumes that Jayla will be commandeering half his bed, when she flops beside him as he reads a book. She looks absolutely knackered, and the ancient man has to laugh at her. He nudges one of her feet with his until she looks up at him.

“So, we’ve a dozen children now I take it? And what will become of them when we must leave?” While he smiles, his question is deadly serious. He is not disappointed.

“I will be addressing this issue with the council tomorrow, as well as giving my report of the hinterlands. This shouldn’t have been allowed to happen. There isn’t a single human child, that I have seen, as dirty as they were, alone as they were. They are children and need a home. I’ll hire someone to look after them here. I won’t assume anyone will do anything. They haven’t yet.” Her response is fierce, and the wolf spirit in him nods his approval. Action whispers to him of her virtue and Solas can only push the love-sick spirit away.

“You are a good woman, Jayla. Better than we deserve as Herald.” Better than he deserves. Far better. Which is why he won’t pursue her. Just another reason, another way that makes it obvious she is not for him.

“Shush. I did what – I did what was right. They’re babies! They need someone to keep them safe.” A yawn cracks her jaw and she presses her face against his chest without reservation. “I don’t care what anyone says about it. They can toss it into the void.” Her sleepy murmurs make him laugh, an arm wrapping around her shoulders for a slight hug. He says nothing more, reading and playing guard for the children and woman in his home until sleep takes him. He slides into his spirit, and the roam the fade that night, keeping every ward in their territory safe from nightmares and despair demons. It’s the second time in months they have not immediately sought out their bound Herald. It’s strange, making their fur ruffle in ways they aren’t keen to address. Though Solas isn’t keen to address the way Action praises Jayla’s maternal instincts, and her adoption of their people as her own. That was a road he would not look at nor go down. It would lead only to heartache.


	20. A Pack, a Family.

“Now, who would like to explain to me why I found twelve elven children with no one taking care of them last night?” Jayla has a tray on her lap, legs crossed as she sits in a chair she brought into the war room with her. It’s just barely morning, and she’d just left Solas, still sleeping, along with still sleeping children to address the issue that has plagued her all night. Her breakfast consists of boiled eggs and some sweet fruit she absolutely adores. Popping a piece of fruit into her mouth, she waits for someone to speak.

Cassandra looks confused, irritated, and rightfully so. Cassandra has been gone for some…what was it, three months? But the other three, those that run Haven while Jayla and her merry band of misfits do the grunt work, have no option to look confused. “So you did mean to send a Guard to report to us on the state of displaced children last night. There are wild rumors this morning amongst those who witnessed you lead twelve children with Solas to your cabin. More about the choice of words Solas used.”

“That isn’t what we are addressing, Cassandra. I want to know why there were twelve no thirteen, one child ran from me in fear, thirteen children left in the cold. Elven children specifically. Not one human child. Where are the sisters, isn’t this their job? To give succor to those who need it?” Her eyes are hard as she sips her morning wine. Warm, watered down at her request, and pleasant.

“We have quarters for the children here, it was our understanding the Sisters had found all the children who had been orphaned.” Leliana is the one to speak, and Jayla’s jaw clenches, dark eyes flashing as they narrow. The Spy Mistress wouldn’t let something like that slip from her fingers. If she did, by Jayla’s estimation, that would make her a very poor Spy Master indeed.

“A pretty story. Truly it is. I’m sure it makes all the sisters feel wonderful. I will ask you again. Why were thirteen, possibly more, children left without guardians in this town?” Cassandra backs away from the table as Jayla speaks. Her voice is gentle, too gentle. It makes the hairs on the Seeker’s neck stand straight up. She’s travelled enough with the woman to know when a storm is brewing.

“If the Sisters missed some children, it was bound to happen, Herald. They are not only meant to mind children. They’ve other responsibilities here.” Cullen speaks, hands on the pommel of his sword as they always are, annoyance clear in his face. It has Jayla standing up, setting aside a half-eaten breakfast, and approaching the table with a deceptive calm.

“How many worship services does this Chantry – converted into a military base of operations- hold? How many sisters are currently within Haven’s walls? How many Mothers and Revered Mothers? There are more than enough nuns in this God forsaken Chantry to mind children and still attend to their other duties, Commander. But perhaps this has to do with the fact there are no Dwarves or Elves in the Chantry? Those histories have been riveting, Lady Montilyet, I thank you for them. It’s so odd to me that Elves and Dwarves are omitted from teachings and canon. Surely, they have been here just as long as the humans. Surely, as they were here, in this land by all accounts, first. It is fascinating to me, that they aren’t saved by the Maker. Surely, if the Maker made you and I, he made them as well.” Her hands settle on the edge of the war table, her voice still gentle, calm as a placid lake.

It makes Cassandra nervous. She’s only seen, or rather heard, Jayla’s ire with Varric, and there had been rumors of a screaming match between the Herald and her Apostate within the weeks before their excursion to the Hinterlands. This – could be bad.

“My lady, this falls upon my shoulders.” Ever diplomatic Josephine steps forward, bowing her head and drawing Jayla’s eyes. “I am responsible for making sure all have a warm and dry place to sleep –“

“Lady Montilyet,” Jayla interrupts her Ambassador, stilling the Antivan woman’s tongue. “While it does fall under the umbrella of your duties -it was not your fault alone, nor was it your sole responsibility as you are not part of the Chantry, which I can only infer is the organization taking the children in. The error is not yours to be blame for singularly, and you are dismissed from this meeting. You’ve far more important things to do than listen to this.”

Leliana and Cullen stiffen, and Cassandra feels a sort of pride in the Herald. While they were meant to lead together, a voice leading the pack was never something she would object to. There always needed to be a Commander above all others. It would seem Jayla is taking the role upon herself. The Ambassador does not protest, but curtsies and quietly removes herself from the room. There isn’t a single bat of lashes or protest. Josephine is a smart woman. Perhaps smarter than the Commander, who looks quite perturbed.

“Herald, a dozen children are a grievous oversight, I will admit. We are not in charge of the Chantry staff –“

“As far as I am aware, Sister Leliana, this town is ours, if not on paper then in practice. _We_ are responsible for how the Chantry staff act. Are they not a reflection of us? Of the ideals, which we are striving to reinstate as we quest for peace and stability? We are **absolutely** responsible for how this Chantry is seen. Already it seems, it is sliding into its more comfortable ways. Those children are elves, and because of their race, they were left in the cold with no one to protect them.”

Cassandra flinches mentally. Jayla is not wrong. The Chantry may have denounced the Inquisition, but to have a Chantry and staff who were sworn to the Inquisition uphold morals that were – less than sterling?? It is a problem. One none of them really considered. The building is largely used to house the officials, the clerics, the Noble guests, and store extra supplies – not they’ve much in the way of extra anything at this point.

“You and Your apostate go too far.” Cullen shakes his head, the barest hint of a sneer. “You let a Templar under your command die in the field. You take months to do what others would have in a fortnight, from our reports you spend more time with the apostate than you –“

“Do. Not.” Jayla’s voice is like ice and whips through the room. “Do not finish that sentence Commander Rutherford. A group of six that rather tragically lost one, did more in the Hinterlands than we ought to have needed to as only a single contingent of troops came in to maintain a presence in the region while the rest were all Leliana’s people and scouts. Do not make it seem as if I have not done what has been asked of me. I stabilized the Crossroads, the Hinterlands, I secured the horses we need so long as _your men_ work in a timely fashion and establish the guard patrols needed. I have been injured more times than I can count now in the name of closing this Breach and I imagine I will be injured many more times before it is closed. So, you had best _think_ before you speak to me about what I have done for you and whether you can denounce it as less than what is expected or less than what it really is.”

The dark young woman stands, her hands on her hips, back straight, head high, looking far taller than she truly is. “Sister Leliana, you will brief me on missions of a delicate nature, the ones we need your scouts for before the evening meal, and you will find me a governess or nanny within the week. Commander Rutherford, you will apprise me on the status of our troops, and any missions the Spy Master has brought to your attention. You _will_ assign the governess and children a set of guards.  You will **both** keep an eye out for any other orphans and if there are more than fifty both within the walls of the chantry and lost outside them, which I hope to God there are not, you will build or move quarters so they may have a space for them here by the chantry where they are safest. You _will_ assign non-biased caretakers for them, and you will inform me of this having been done. I understand we’ve caused quite a stir in the world, and the names that Mother Giselle provided with us have been put to good use.” The statement is more of a question, now that her orders were laid out on the table.

In truth, Jayla blames all the advisors for allowing the Chantry to leave children in the deplorable conditions of the town without so much as a by your leave. It’s disgusting. That Jayla knows it is racially based, how many things are not racially or magically based when it came to prejudice here? Makes it worse. That her advisors are complicit. Well. To say the young woman is livid would be like saying the sky is torn in twain. She takes deep breaths, visage far calmer than she feels and watches the Commander and Spy Mistress.  When neither move to deny her, she nods, pleased they weren’t going to buck against her.

“Thank you. Now, Commander, please brief me on the missions that need your delicate touch, and keep a mind to _never_ bring Solas up to me again in such a manner.”  In the blink of an eye, Jayla changes the tone of the meeting, though the tension is still thick, and Cassandra slips out to gather Josephine back. The Herald needed to know of the nobles and the missions Lady Montilyet undoubtedly had accumulated.

When Jayla steps into the crisp wind of the morning, the sun has crept from its bed. The sky is aquamarine, as it will be until the hole to the fade is closed, but all is rather tranquil. Tray in hand, she makes her way slowly toward her shared cabin. On the way, she garners the attention of one of the runners, asking them to go to the Mess cook and get breakfast enough for thirteen and send it to Ser Solas’ cabin.  She barely acknowledges the new bookends and but groans when the door is closed. She forgot to tell Cullen to pull back his Templars. She would keep Eric – but no others would come near her.

“ _Lethallan_!” A cry sweeps through the small hut and Jayla’s head turns to find twelve pairs of eyes on her. Thirteen though the thirteenth is somewhat blearier than the rest.

“Hello little ones. Now, I didn’t think to get your names. Breakfast is coming, and until it arrives, will you tell me your names?”  Expertly, Jayla gets all the little ones up and settled about Solas’ desk, marking his pages and moving the books away from little hands. Solas removes himself carefully from his bed, watching her while attempting to sweep away his irritation to have woken and her presence was gone.  Again, he had left her to her own devices, Action stating Command and Strength had lessons for her. He had hoped, for at least a few moments during waking to have her in his arms. A selfish desire, but he’s become quite used to it over the last few months. A dozen children. It will be a wonder if he ever has the luxury of holding her in the comfort of this house as he had during their time in the field.

He can’t deny, it pleased him beyond measure to see Jayla take the children. This is a small cabin, but with some changes…It might hold them all comfortably. Amusement filters through his irritation. The great Trickster God, the Betrayer – making plans to house twelve children not his own, with a woman also not his own and not of his people. Oh, what would the Evanuris say if they could see him now?

“My name is Ashalantarasylnin! But, I like being called Tara best. I’m eight, I was with the Hossberg Mages.” A little girl with snow white hair is the first to answer. That she was with mages, well, Solas perks up. A mage child, and likely from a Dalish clan. The question was, how had she been captured? The Dalish allowed outsiders to believe they simply ousted young mages from their clans, he knew better. He’s encountered the Keeper Clan, the transient mages of the Dalish who deal with abominations, who bring news of their large gathering, who sought out and interpreted what history they could. This da’len had been ripped from her family.

“Me next,” the defiant boy from the night before speaks up next. “Erymben! Mamae called me ben, and I am seven.” He is the start of a chorus with the children. Names from Ferelden, Orlais, The Free Marches, and father north. Dalish names are rare, but there are some. It makes the old mage happy to hear the People have not altogether lost themselves in the Humans and Qunari.  The Herald had a good estimation of time, by the time the smallest girl, Eldhru had availed them of her age (three, they had left a three-year-old in the snow), a knock came on his door.

With a chorus of cheers following him, Solas moves to the door, opening it and allowing the young runner to bring in their burden. The smell of sausage and sweet rolls fills the room, milk is brought in as well by a second runner, with a skin of wine for him presumably. The delivery is quick. And the children barely stay themselves from gobbling their portions of the bounty as Jayla serves them out.  He blinks to see the largest sweet role has been saved for him, the sausage smaller than what she’d given the children.

“Here, _Hilo_. Eat.” Her smile is brilliant, and he takes the food with a smile of his own. His thanks come nonverbally and he sits on his bed to break the nights fast. He wonders what that word means.

“Lady Herald,” Tara pipes up half way through her sweet roll, “what’s going to happen now?” 

It has Jayla sitting down beside Solas and casting a look at him. She seems – apprehensive. He doesn’t say anything, letting her take the lead. These, after all, were their wards, children now. He had told her as much last night, he knows she would not forget that so soon.

“I have requested a governess brought for you all, and a guard contingent assigned to you all. I – “she falters for a moment, looking at Solas. He is not upset by this, though – it is going to make their lives harder. He swallows and addresses the children.

“It would seem, da’len, you have the privilege of calling the Herald your Guardian, you may also count me as your Guardian as well. We will keep you safe, fed, clothed, and it seems – our Lady Herald would have you educated as well. Though, I do believe we need at least one Enchanter in addition to a tutor. I will happily supplement your tutelage, but I will be accompanying the Herald on her journeys.” His voice is even and soothing, and from his peripheral vision, sees Jayla sag in relief. She worried he would object. A valid worry, but unnecessary.

“You’re all mine now, little ones. So, I expect only the best manners from you, and for you to learn your lessons without complaint. That said, if someone calls you…” The dark woman grits her teeth before pushing off. “If someone calls you knife ear, if they assume you are a servant, if someone hurts you – you tell me. You send a Raven, you yell and scream, but you tell me – or Ser Solas. Come to one of us, our job is to protect you now.” She stands, the anger at the slurs melting from her face. The children are favored with a sweet, cheerful grin as she heads toward the door.

“Now, I have to go train. That leaves you in Solas’ care. Do as he tells you to, we will sort out a schedule for you, and I will make sure you have all you need before we have to leave again.” With a last look at him, Jayla disappears out the door.

Finishing his food, Solas watches the children. He’s not sure what exactly he’s done, allowing Jayla to _keep_ the children, to name himself guardian as well, but it is done. The children are safe now, part of their -. He swallows and casts away that thought. It was not the correct word for the children made with he and the Herald.

“Ser! Ser! Will you tell us a story? Are you and the Lady really mages, did you really make the big tear in the sky stop growing?” The smallest ones want a story, the elder want to hear of more recent things. Some are quiet, watching him with interest in their faces.  It is nothing for him to launch into a story of his travels, and recounting the wonder of Jayla’s first battles with the rifts and Breach.

For a little while, he basks in the children’s awe. It does rather startle him when little Eldhru climbs onto his lap. She plays with his jawbone necklace, and is utterly fearless. The _da’len_ is of fascinating coloring. Green eyes, and skin almost as dark as Jayla’s, but her hair is blonde and pin straight. Such an uncommon occurrence. He does, however, quite appreciate her fearlessness.  As it happens, Eldhru stays on his lap throughout the morning.

 

“Hear you took on twelve children last night.” Mughen remarks as he lunges for the Herald. This morning they are engaging in hand to hand training. Word has flown through the scouts. The Herald still hesitates, and that will not do. He’d heard she was half burned to death for hesitating. That could not happen again. He will push her until she cannot hesitate. Her habit will be to strike if he can manage it.

“What of it?”  She huffs with displeasure as he strikes her. It is nothing to deflect, though she hesitates, as he had assumed she would. He grits his teeth and attacks her again, landing his hits without a drop of remorse.  Her pained sounds upset him, but at the same time, she must learn.

“Why would you care about a bunch of cast off knife ears?” It’s a taunt, but Jayla – Mughen knows her temper. Specifically, her temper when it comes to elves. He’s counting on it. The Herald does not disappoint either.

 

Groaning, Jayla is released at twelfth bell from her combat training. She is bruised, dirty, and utterly tired. Mughen had pushed her buttons today, but he’d made his point. Made it quite clearly. Her temper could get her killed, her hesitance would get her killed. He isn’t the only one who tells her so. Still, Jayla refuses to just kill someone. She can’t. It’s…She just can’t.

On her way into the walls of Haven, she spots the trader. The one who continually seems to piss his customers off. He seems to have a crap ton of random shit, so she wanders over, and starts to look at his displayed wares. Jayla’s never spoken to the man before, and honestly, she doesn’t mind when he approaches her. He isn’t the most …agreeable conversationalist. But, he gets the job done. Her request of fabric is accommodated, and with enough leveraging of her status, Jayla gets her cloth and sundries for what amounts to pennies on the dollar. It has her beaming, as she walks into the cabin with barely a look at her silver doorstops. Beaming, and favoring her left leg.

“ _Da’asha_ , you’ve come bearing … cloth?” Solas has the magelings in a circle, a book in hand, a child on his hip. The scene stops Jayla dead in her tracks, brown eyes wide. When she’d invaded Solas’ home, she never thought she’d see something like this. When she brought children into his cabin, she didn’t expect him to be so – to be so easy going. But, then again, the children are elven, and Solas has strong opinions about how his people are treated here. Still – it does things to her to see a child in his arms that looks as if she could have - _no_. Nope. No. Absolutely not. No.

Clearing her throat as she shakes her head to clear it, the Herald smiles. “Yes, cloth to make some clothes over the next weeks. I’ll need to speak to Ambassador Montilyet about a different bedding system, or maybe a different cabin to house us all, not to mention more clothes, and shoes, but this should hold everyone over.” Her cheeks flush with color when she essentially lays out an idea to move them from Solas’ cabin. She’d taken over rather thoroughly and can’t quite feel comfortable about it. Even if he’d declared it _theirs_ , it was his first.

The man in question barely reacts, his stoic face giving little away. “A wise set of decisions, _Da’asha_.” The fact he isn’t calling her, her proper name is heartening. If he were truly upset, he wouldn’t use whatever the hell _da’asha_ meant in reference to her.  She can’t help but let relief flow through her.

“Shall I send a runner to get lunch?” She moves into the room properly, setting the fabric, needles, and thread safely away in her trunk. Little hands tended to get into little things. She’s babysat often enough to be well aware of that fact.

“No need, I sent already. Apparently, the Mess cook took offense this morning at our order. Our breakfast was courtesy of Flissa, as will be our lunch.” That makes Jayla sigh heavily. Feeding fourteen people was going to get expensive. Wildly expensive. Her fingers comb through her locks as she lets them out of the bun she’d put them in that morning.

“I think we’re going to have to start cooking.” It would keep their gold free for much needed repair fees and provisions while they were out in the world. To drain all their gold on food – it would be wildly problematic.

“It would be wise, we have many little mouths to feed.”

“It would be easier if it were spring for real, then maybe we could do a bit of gardening, let Tara and Ben tend it while we’re galivanting off into the sunset.” It’s clear Jayla isn’t thinking about how permanent this sounds to Solas. She’s never given thought to how their intimacy might be viewed by those outside their companions. In truth, Solas in recent weeks hasn’t given it any. But to see her absently scoop up another of the smallest children, gently extracting his thumb from his mouth and bopping his nose with her finger – there is nothing else on his mind.

“We should perhaps, go hunting after this, we can perhaps acquire vegetables from one of the vendors. Stew will last us for days.” And if they went hunting, he could speak to her about this. He had to, before someone said the wrong thing, and Jayla alienates herself from the humans. Claiming elven children, living with an elven man. The rumors will never stop. This family she’s created, and spirits that word shouldn’t be uttered in reference to him, would be targeted, the children possibly mistreated.

“Think Varric will mind this pack of wild little wolves for us?” She mimes snapping her jaws at the little boy in her arms, and Action sits up within Solas. He’d been docile letting Solas deal with the situation as he would without comment. Now, with Jayla calling the children a pack, calling them wolves, moving them to what the spirit considers a bigger den. Action is reading more into it than Solas can deal with. The attraction he feels for Jayla – she’s beautiful. Her soul is one that has no equal in his eyes and she is kind. She is good. She knows the struggles of the Elves. The attraction is growing. It’s rather problematic. Problematic enough that Solas decides not to speak to her about the subject of rumors. What damage is done, is done. They will face it. She will make the world accept her - them. He's no doubt she could do so.

“It may be best to ask Lady Montilyet. Varric may not be the best candidate for such a task.” He bounces Eldhru on his hip. He isn’t the least bit surprised with Jayla agrees with him.

 

“My lady, the Clerics have gathered in Val Royeaux thanks to Mother Giselle and your work in the Hinterlands. It would be best if you could be underway within the next day or so.” Josephine’s words jolt Jayla from her revere, and she squints.

“Why do you want _me_ to go see the clerics. I’m an outsider, a mage, and by most of their opinions, a heretic. Cassandra and Leliana are better suited to this task. They were the Divine’s most trusted advisors, weren’t they?”  It’s only been a fortnight. Jayla hadn’t thought Giselle would rally the Chantry Mothers so quickly. The children aren’t settled, the governess has yet to make her appearance, though Kerli is quite pleased with the magelings progress and teaches the other littles as well. Solas isn’t even settled into the bigger cabin yet.

“You are the Herald. You are the face of the Inquisition, my lady. It is unavoidable.”

“It would put a target on her back. It isn’t safe for her to go alone, nor should she shoulder this task alone. I will go with her.” Cassandra speaking up fills the younger woman with hope for all of a moment. When she declares that she will go with her, naturally Cullen pushes for their whole company to go. He especially pushes for Rickson to accompany them. It makes her teeth grind and static gather on her skin.

“I don’t need Templar supervision, Commander. In fact, I have been meaning to address that. I want the Templars gone. They scare the children, and I won’t tolerate it.” Her voice cracks like a whip, making the Ambassador blink, and the Commander heave a sigh.

“I will not remove your guards. They are there to protect you –“

“Don’t bullshit me. We – I have a house of mages, and not once has anyone had an accident like I did. We warded the place against demons, and all of us are safe. Your blatant distrust of me is being noted in the town, Commander.” Jayla had been formulating arguments, unsure which might work best on the Commander for this. Her status is, unfortunately, everything – her best bargaining chip. One she has to be careful not to over use.

“They will keep the children safe.”

“You mean smite them and cut them down if they feel they are a danger. Have you learned nothing from your time in Kirkwall, Commander?”

The temperature of the room seems to drop, and the tension ratchets to uncomfortable levels. To use this against him – Jayla wouldn’t count herself as having the option to ever call the Commander friend after this. But he refuses to speak with her unless it is to give a report, he refuses to budge on her Templar guards, and she’s fairly sure he enjoys the way she distrusts him.

“My lady,” the words sound like an insult the way he says them. It is an interesting thing. “Forgive me, but you know nothing of my time in Kirkwall.”

“Don’t I? Varric is quite talkative you know, and it would seem Hawke’s company went to the Gallows quite often. Templars also talk when you get enough drink in them, Knight-Captain. I thought this was your redemption.” She’s in now. Well and truly her bet is all in and her cards might be shit. But Jayla won’t budge on this. If she has to go to Val Royeaux, the Templars will be nowhere in the vicinity of her kids. Nowhere near them. She doesn’t trust the ones stationed by her home. Eric – him she trusts. But none of the others.

“Herald, you are being too critical of the Commander.” It is the first-time Cassandra speaks against Jayla, and it makes the girl blink. Her stance does not change.

“I think I am not being critical enough, of you or him, Seeker.” She hates to do this to Cassandra, but Cassandra put herself here. “Do you trust any Templar under the command of a man who smote a woman who’d had a nightmare to the point she could not tell her dream from the waking world around children? Templars may not all be the same, but you all wear the same cloth, you all were taught the same things. I will not have any of them near my children.”

“You are overly protective of those children. They should be in the Chantry with the others.” He is being dismissive and Jayla’s hands shock against the stable with her rising emotions. It’s plain to see. So plain, Nightingale inserts herself into the brewing argument.

“The Templars will be removed, though Rickson will stay in your company. It is a good compromise, yes?”

The Herald’s eyes narrow, and her teeth grind behind her lips. Standing up straight, she has no choice but to go with it. “Fine. For now, Ser Rickson will continue to accompany me. But his service will be addressed upon my return. You want someone people rally behind? Then you make it so they trust me.” Her head shakes, and she rakes a hand through the carefully coiled locks.

“Have you had word from Dennet at all? What of the towers and guard rotations? I need those towers up and operational, we need the horses to move the troops and supplies with ease. There isn’t enough to go around and if it keeps staying a frozen wasteland here, the situation will not improve."

Personal matters put aside, the five put their heads together and begin assigning roles once more. The trip to Val Royeaux should not be very long –.

“My lady Herald, Commander, Sister, Ambassador. There is a man who wishes your attention.” The words are muffled through the door, and it strikes the lot as odd anyone would interrupt their meeting. Jayla is up and at the door in just a few strides, opening it with a swift pull.

“Yes? Where is he?”

“Here Ser.” A man with hair that can only be describe as an undercut, moves into view. His armor is well worn, dented and repaired in several places, there is no tabard or indication of allegiance. “I’ve come with a message. The Iron Bull offers the services of his Chargers, and invites you to see what we can do prior to you signing us on. There’s been Tevinter slaver activity in the Storm Coast, he’s going to take care of it as his audition of sorts.”

The Herald blinks her big brown eyes at the man, and looks over her shoulder. “Are we hiring Mercenaries?”

It is a valid question, and one that makes the advisors look at one another. More soldiers would never hurt. Though looking into the company further would be wise. Leliana is the one who answers. “It can’t hurt to observe them, your Worship.”

“All right,” Jayla turns her attention back to the man speaking. “Sounds like I’ll be going to the Storm Coast to meet this…Iron Bull. When is this happening?”

“A week, your Worship. Time enough for you to come to the Coast. Any longer and the Vints will slip away.”  She nods, and waits until the man turns before closing the door. Sighing she moves back to the map.

“When is, the gathering being held?”

The plan adjusts accordingly for the new development, and Jayla slips from the war room to go inform Solas of what will be occurring. The walk to the new cabin isn’t that long. Though it can be a pain when people try to follow her, questioning her on this or that random thing, petitioning her for her blessing. It makes her walk thrice as long, since she must walk around the town to throw them off where her cabin actually is. The cabin is up the hill from the Chantry, nestled against the farthest wall of Haven, butting up directly against the mountain. The location is perfect. Trees obscure the cabin enough most people have no idea it’s there. A replica of the former Father’s abode. Apparently, there had been a cult here, a dragon cult. Jayla isn’t quite sure she likes the idea of living in a cult leader’s replicated house, but needs must.

Today it’s warm enough the lot of the children are outside, running and playing together. A nice reprieve from yesterday’s debacle with two of the boys. One had been unhappy with the other because of …something. Jayla has no idea anymore. Solas likely has no idea what it was about. They had woken up to screaming and crying.

It had not been a good morning to say the least. Separating the kids and ascertaining the issue – fixing it, had taken enough time Mughen had come looking for Jayla with Talen in tow. To say she was embarrassed to answer the door to the pair without thought, her in her sleeping shirt an Solas in his breeches would be an understatement. Not to mention the gleam in the two rogues’ eyes were enough to make her want to run for cover.

Jayla knows what people say about them. That the Herald and the Apostate are playing house. That they’ve adopted twelve unwanted children and will likely be adding more to the brood before the year is out. It makes her teeth ache with how often they grind. It wasn’t like that. Not at all. Solas is – he’s amazing. Smart, patient with her, so willing to teach her, and he comforts her better than anyone else ever has. She is safe with Solas. He’s – He’s everything.

Which is the problem. Her mind wanders as the kids dance around her feet and pull her into playing. Solas is too much of what she wants. He’s quiet, and fierce. He’s damn capable. The way he looks at her makes her feel like she’s the only person in his world, and she knows that isn’t true. But when he looks at her she feels that way. He took on twelve children without a single drop of irritation or her having to beg him to do so. The man risked, and still risks his freedom to fight to seal the Breach.

“Jayla,” his voice jerks her out of her thoughts, cheeks turning red. She turns to look at him, suddenly aware she is covered in snow. The laughter in his eyes. Jayla hopes there is never cause for him to lose that look. Maybe if she lives through this war, maybe she’ll about making the rumors fact.

 

“Commander, we need to speak about the Herald.” Leliana has never been one to dance around important things. No. That is a lie, she’s been a bard for years, and dancing around a topic is what she did to survive. But, this has gone on long enough.

“I very much doubt it, Leliana.” He has dark circles under his eyes, his skin is sallow. The withdrawal is taking its toll on him in many ways. But, that will not be addressed by her. Cassandra is the one who is in control of how far Cullen may spiral before she takes over.

“You’ll find that I disagree. Lady Shepard is not of this world, and you clearly have no idea how to handle her. She’s quite spirited for a woman so young, and certainly not afraid to stand up to people she fears. Make no mistake, Commander, she fears you, and that is a problem.”

“I hardly see how she could be frightened of me.”

“Stop it.” Leliana hisses the words at him, leaning on his desk. “I am tired of you denying your hand in the way your working relationship with that woman has gone. You nearly killed her with that smite. You forced guards upon her and then blamed her for the death of one of them. You go out of your way to insult her and make her upset. Do you think you hide it? The whole of Haven knows the two of you do not see eye to eye. It will damage us.”

“Leliana –“

“No Commander. You will fix this. You will allow Rickson to leave her service should they both want that. This animosity ends now. The Herald is the Inquisition now. The Hinterlands was a trial, one she passed rather beautifully. She may be hesitant to kill, she may not adhere to the way mages are taught to do magic here, but she has made herself known to the people. And the people love her. They will only continue to love her as time goes on, because that woman shines with kindness. She takes her duty to extremes that they see as the Maker’s will pushing her to be more. So you will fix your relationship with her. She leaves in the morning with Solas, Rickson, Varric, and Cassandra – I expect the roster of her guards will be finalized and on my desk before the sixth bell tonight.”

“There are no volunteers –“

“Are you not the Commander? Assign them, and quell the rumors. I don’t care if she is bedding Solas – that woman is our salvation. Those children are her light. If something happens to them, it will be your head that she comes for. Make no mistake, Commander, she would take it.”

“By your leave, Spy Master.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update!
> 
> The Keeper Clan is not my thing, it is a thing from Charamei on tumblr and it is glorious.   
> http://nighthaunting.tumblr.com/post/143655946221/detroit-to-tadfield-a-really-bad-decision  
> http://charamei.dreamwidth.org/87751.html
> 
> Tara's name means Daughter of the Storm  
> Eldhru means Our faith.  
> Da'asha - little woman  
> Hilo - Sweetheart
> 
> As always, unbeta'd.


	21. Of Chantry Mothers, Templars, Culture and Enchanters.

It was not the easiest evening for the mages tucked behind the Chantry. When Jayla had attempted to quietly inform Solas they would be gone for at least two weeks’ time, Tara and Ben had thrown a fit. The little sneaks had been hiding beside the door, and promptly run to tell the other children. Twelve children took to yelling at their adults, tears and snot everywhere. Solas and Jayla had worked well past supper to calm worried minds, and ended up collapsed atop their bed with children laying on them every which way.

“Maker –“ the Herald groans as a small foot lodges itself in her side. It amuses Solas to no end that Jayla vacillates between using the title of Maker and God as an exclamation. She was assimilating little by little, but the word still sounds wrong on her lips. “How are little hands and little feet so painful?”

They were squished together, children on either side, the smallest laying on their chests. It’s a sea of hair colors and soft murmuring sighs that indicate sleep. This is an event Solas had not anticipated. The Dalish children perhaps, with their community living, he could see wanting to stay with their parental figures. The smallest as well – they would need the contact to ease their troubled minds. But the children in between? The ones who have not yet completely warmed to either him or Jayla for all they are happy to be warm and fed – those are the ones who shock him. That they cling so readily to she and he.

The lack of room in the otherwise very large bed is a mild inconvenience to his mind, as he curls an arm around Jayla with a quiet huff. “It is a mystery of life, _da’ara_. One I doubt these little ones will be able to help us solve before –“ hesitation stills his words. Before what? Before they grow too old to do this? Before they are placed with proper families? He doesn’t like the latter idea and the former – he will not see them to be grown.

Silence falls in the room, Jayla not responding to him. Likely for the same reasons he has stopped speaking. They would not be together after the Breach was closed and the Divine’s murderer brought to light. She will still be Inquisitor, and he will have his duty. Sleep does not come easy.

The morning is worse than the evening had been. Jayla is juggling children and food trying to feed them all while waiting on the Nanny and Enchanter Kerli to come to the cabin. Both women would be staying here, and as such, Solas was warding the bedroom. He didn’t like strangers near his things, but needs must. The children could not go without a minder.

There are tears, he can hear them, scent them from the second floor. Jayla’s soft murmurs of song do little to calm any of those sobbing. A crash garners his attention, and he hurriedly throws the last ward up to race down stairs. One of the boys has defiantly thrown his plate it would seem, and Jayla looks near tears. Frustration lines her body; her movements are deliberate but less fluid than they would normally be. This was not going well, nor was it easy on her.

“Da’len. You’ve broken a plate.” His voice is quiet but stern as he makes his way to the scene of destruction. The other children are making their displeasure known still, but this he must nip before it is allowed to blossom. “Why?”

“You’re leaving us!” The petulant toddler looks mutinous and Solas sighs.

“We must. The Herald has to heal the sky. We cannot be with you every day.”

“You won’t come back!” The blurted words, and the abject fear, sad resignation on the child’s face makes the room still. Here was the root of the problem. They were afraid he and Jayla would come to harm. As Solas gathers the plate shards, murmuring a spell to dispose of the ruined food, he wonders if this will be what makes Jayla stop hesitating. If the thought of her children – and they are hers now, if their tantrums are any indication – alone will stop her from hesitating on the battlefield.

“We will come back.” Her voice quavers, and she holds Eldhru tight against her side. The eyes he enjoys so much are wide, shimmering with unshed tears, yet determined. “Solas and I will not leave you. We’re going to go speak to the Chantry Mothers, and meet someone that wants to work for the Inquisition, but then we are coming home. I promise you, I swear on my ancestors – we will come back, _poe kamalii_. You’re ours to keep safe now. We won’t leave you to the cold again.”

Stepping forward, she presses her lips to the riot of curls that make up the child’s hair. He seems to accept this, though he still has a sullen look on his face. Slowly, the other children quiet, though their tears do not ebb. It rips at his heart in a fashion he didn’t desire. More attachments. More lives he would ultimately destroy.

Grimacing for a moment, Solas disposes of the plate pieces. Returning, he emulates Jayla, pressing his lips to each child’s head. Before long, the sun is up, food has been eaten, the Enchanter and Nanny have arrived and they wear their packs ready to leave. To say chaos erupts would be to say Solas admires Jayla. The children yell and cry and in the end, Haven witnesses both himself and Jayla bringing the children to see them off. Eldhru clings to Solas, Ben and Tara to Jayla with the others darting between the two of them.

“Andraste’s ass, Princess.” Varric looks surprised, as if he hadn’t seen them with the small horde of children already.

“Language, Varric.” Jayla says it tiredly, kneeling before the little ones while Solas stations himself beside her. “ _Poe kamalii_ , don’t forget what we said. We’re coming back. I need you to mind Enchanter Kerli and Miss Irina, don’t get hurt while we are away and maybe, just maybe, I will have a gift for each of you when we come home.” Her resolve to leave and calm the children have all eyes on them. Solas feels his ears turning pink.

“Listen to Jayla. We’re coming ho-back. Nothing will keep us away. We will see you in your dreams, so you know we aren’t as far as it seems.”  He is shocked to hear how rough his voice sounds as he passes Eldhru to Irina. He doesn’t want to. She does not want him to let her go and cries harder.

“ _Papae_!“ Solas has to turn around, all but dragging Jayla away as she repeats herself again and again that they will be coming home. His heart hurts. Three years old. He should have expected it. Too young to have permanent memories of her parents, and she so often came to him to be hugged or held.

Both mages throw themselves onto their horses, leading the party from Haven. It is hard for them both, they’d had but three weeks with the little pack. Neither had thought this would occur. Both look back more than once, and Jayla sniffles when they cross the bridge out of Haven.

“Guess those rumors are true then.” Varric mutters it behind them, and neither can muster the desire to correct him. It is a miserable two days to Val Royeaux.

The city of Val Royeaux is blinding in its opulence. Even the livery outside the city where they leave their horses is grand, stables with iron doors, and sweet smelling grass strewn across the floor.  She all but trips as she spins to see it all. Marble, gold, Great Iron gates and statues depicting all manner of hero. She barely notices when their party is noticed, though the shriek of a masked woman does make her head snap forward.

“Just a guess, Seeker, but I think they all know who we are.” Varric’s sarcasm isn’t missed and has Jayla’s brow twitching. Cassandra seems less than impressed.

“Your skills of observation never fail to impress me, Varric.”

For a moment, it is as if the pair were actually on good terms with one another. Jayla wonders when that will actually be true. The urge to say something hits her just as a scout jogs and stops before them.

“My lady Herald.” The title makes Jayla sigh audibly as the scout salutes her and takes a knee before Cassandra. Something – anything – needs to be done about that damned title. It’s a menace.

“You’re one of Leliana’s people, what have you found?” Cassandra is straight to business and Jayla is thankful for that.

“The Chantry Mothers await you, but so do a great many Templars.”

Cassandra casts a look at Jayla and Solas, worry in her gaze. “There are Templars here?”

“People seem to think that the Templars will protect them from –“ she trips over her words a moment, “from the Inquisition. They’re gathering on the other side of the market. I think that is where the Templars intend to meet you.”

The scout’s report has the party bristling. Templars to meet them. Glorious. Jayla feels a headache brewing and pinches at her nose while Cassandra gets them moving.

“Only one thing to do then.”

“You can’t be serious,” Jayla pulls level with Cassandra, half jogging to keep up with the taller woman. “They might be here to take us into custody or worse.”

“If we flee,” Solas interjects before Cassandra can, “in their eyes it would be the same as admitting guilt in the death of the Divine. We meet them as planned. Take heart, we will not let you be harmed.”

“Return to Haven,” Cassandra addresses the scout as she walks. “Someone will need to inform them if we are – delayed.”

Outnumbered, Jayla sighs once more, head tilting back as they walk to look at the carvings and decorations that are above them. The Summer Market is – it’s fucking huge is what it is. Jayla has screen photos of places like Bath and Rome, where columns and circular buildings are common. There are no columns here, but the semi-circle must be at least a quarter mile in diameter at least. At the very least. There is so much to see. The blooming trees are fragrant, and the center building a brilliant blue. So clean the dark woman has to wonder how the city keeps it so.

The crowd isn’t hard to spot, and with Cassandra in the lead, they make for it at a brisk pace. Too brisk in Jayla’s opinion. She doesn’t see any Templars yet, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Her hands itch for her daggers – for the safety they represent. She desperately wants to plaster herself against Solas, to use him as a living shield, but the Herald resists. Weakness here will kill the Inquisition. She’s their Herald, she can’t be weak.

“Good people of Val Royeaux, hear me.” And there was the gathering of Clerics, oh, and there were the Templars. Goody. “Together, we mourn our Divine; her naïve and beautiful heart silenced by treachery. You wonder what will become of her murderer? Well, wonder no more.”

Fucking hell. Jayla holds in a sigh as eyes turn to her. It’s almost flattering that she’s recognized on sight, but perhaps that is Cassandra being recognized not her. Plus, she loves being declared a murderer. Makes her feel all warm and fuzzy inside.  And the Cleric isn’t finished speaking yet.

“Behold, the so-called Herald of Andraste, claiming to rise where our beloved fell.”  This woman is just going all in. Jayla doesn’t even know where to begin. The theatrics…she’d have made a grand entertainer. “We say this is a _false_ prophet! No servant of anything beyond her selfish greed.”

Jayla traveled two days for this, had to endure the tears of children _for this_. She’s had it with these so called devout followers of the Chantry. Head held high in defiance, Jayla pushes through the crowd, stopping just below the platform the Mother stands on. Turning her back on the Cleric, on the Templars, she addresses the people. “They say I am the enemy! They’re wrong. The Breach in the sky is our true enemy, we must unite, all of us, to stop it! The Inquisition only seeks to end the madness that wrecks our countries before there is nothing left to save.” Cassandra steps up as well, reiterating the sentiment. Jayla stands more confidently with the Seeker nearby.

It seems the Mother’s will not have this, however. “It is already too late; the Templars have returned to the Chantry. They will face this Inquisition and the people will be safe once more.”

The dark woman from earth wants to pull her hair out. How absolutely ridiculous can a person be? From all accounts the Templars went on a killing spree when the Mages took their lives into their own hands. Returned to the Chantry? Face the Inquisition? Jayla whirls, pausing when she spots the small company of Templars mounting the dais. Her eyes widen and she takes several steps back when one of the Templars _knocks out_ the Mother who had been spouting her fear induced bullshit.

Jayla may be frustrated, but attacking a Cleric? No thank you. She catches the apparent Leader ordering a Templar to still himself. She doesn’t miss when he states the Mother is beneath them either. It makes her lips curl into a snarl and her hands curl into fists. Static pricks at her skin.

“Was that disgusting display meant to impress me?” Her eyes stay on the apparent leader, though she is hyper aware of those in front of her. Their eyes are burning holes in her armor.

“On the contrary. It wasn’t for you at all.”  He speaks as he moves to leave the dais, the mother left to come back to the living world without aide. Jayla’s head turns as Cassandra speaks up. She flinches when a hand takes hold of her arm, calming when she sees it is Solas.

“Lord Seeker Lucius, it is imperative that we speak with –“

“You will not address me.” He practically hisses the words, and Jayla can’t fault Cassandra for the shocked expression she wears.

“Lord Seeker?”

“Creating a Heretical movement,” he turns, looking put upon for having to answer Cassandra. “Raising up a puppet as Andraste’s prophet – you should be _ashamed_.”  Jayla’s mouth drops open as she watches the interaction, letting Solas lead her forward, keeping himself between her and the Templars to their right.

“You should all be ashamed. The Templars failed _no one_ when they left the Chantry to purge the Mages. _You_ are the ones who have failed, you who would leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear. If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is **mine**.”

What the hell? Jayla moves to stand beside Cassandra once more. The Seeker looks floored, utterly confused. The Earth native can’t blame her. This was fucking nuts. Also, what she is about to say had best never get back to Cullen, if it does, she might have to be civil to him, when he is anything but to her.

“Templars! One of your own commands the Inquisition’s forces! Join us, as he did – do not let yourselves be swept up in an extremist’s desire to destroy all who have magic in their blood. Answer to your _true_ calling! Protect us, protect the mages as you have always done. Let this bloodshed end now and let us conquer the Breach together.”

Jayla doesn’t anticipate the Lord Seeker turning his attention to her. He laughs, “A staunch and loyal member of the order! So loyal, he abandoned them for a false herald.”  That gets her back up, makes her nostrils flare with annoyance. She might not be god-sent but she sure as shit can deal with the breach.

“But Lord Seeker,” a knight comes forward and catches Jayla’s attention. He has amber eyes and skin just as deep as hers is. Perhaps he’s got a little more of a red undertone to him – but he is just as black as Jayla. His eyes meet hers for a moment, and a bit of hope blooms in her. “What if she really was sent by the Maker?” His eyes leave hers to focus on Lucius. He doubts the Lord Seeker. Jayla can see it – none of the others are questioning him.  They could use this.

“You are called to a _higher_ purpose.” One of the Templars answers for the Lord Seeker, and his next words send red flags up. “Do not question.”

She’s got a bad feeling about this.

“I will make the Templar order a power that stands alone against the Void.”

The void? The Breach leads to the Fade not the Void. Jayla’s barely got a handle on this place, but she knows that much. It makes her eyes narrow as the Lord Seeker moves toward them, light glaring in reflection off his armor.

“We deserve recognition, independence. You have shown me nothing, and the Inquisition – less than nothing. Templars, Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection. We march!” And just like that, the Templars follow him, though Jayla can count at least two dozen who look uneasy as they leave.

“Charming fellow,” Varric pipes up when the Templars are out of earshot.

“Has the Lord Seeker gone mad?” Cassandra says it almost to herself, but Jayla can’t help it, she has to know more about this Lord Seeker. He could be a very big problem.

“He’s clearly as crazy as a bag of wet cats, but can he be reasoned with?” If he can’t – then they have more problems than just getting the power to close the Breach.

“I hope so, and if not him, there are surely others in the Order that do not feel as he does. Either way, we must press on to the Storm Coast, and inform the others by Raven of what occurred here.” The Seeker looks so resigned. Jayla feels for her, but at the same time – if that is what the leadership of the Templars is like, Jayla will not ask them for help. He was far worse than Cullen could ever hope to be, and the Herald would die herself before letting Templars like that near her people.

“We can’t get moving until the horses have properly rested. Let’s see if we can’t get some contacts for Haven or something.” Jayla suggests this tiredly, starting to walk without real direction.

“Hey! Inquisition, over here.”

 

Varric watches as Jayla is drawn to a stall selling fruits and vegetables. His brows are drawn together, arms crossed over his chest. This hadn’t gone to plan. He’s not so sure the Clerics will get behind the Inquisition. Then again, one of the Templars did punch a Revered Mother. Things could go either way at this point. They’ve been at this how long now and they’re still trying to gain traction to get things done.  He’s sure Jayla and the advisors are ready to tear their hair out. He certainly is.

The strawberry blonde dwarf keeps an eye on the Herald, but nods to Solas when he comes over. “This trip has been shit, huh?”

The elven man snorts, arms crossing as he leans to one side. “You are not wrong with such an assessment. I had hoped this meeting would bear some kind of fruit for the Inquisition. It seems we are still without allies of a substantial nature to close the Breach.”

“Yeah it does.” He sighs and turns the conversation to things less frustrating. “So – kids huh? Didn’t think you and Princess were so – intimate.” He’s been waiting since they moved to say that. Solas’ reaction doesn’t disappoint either.

“Oh for the –“the taller male presses a thumb into the corner of his eye. “We are not a couple, Varric. We are partners who share an affinity, but nothing more. Taking in the children – how could we leave them to freeze and die in the snow? Eldhru is three – three! She nearly caught lung fever. It was a blessing we returned to Haven when we did, that Jayla saw them that night.”

“Whoa, Chuckles.” Varric’s hands come up in the universal sign of surrender. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Personally? I think you suit her, she trusts you, you guys go on for hours about the Fade and Magic, and I’ve never seen people fight without actually talking that weren’t married or sleeping together.” He shouldn’t be pointing this out, after all, broody elves spelled trouble for heroic women. He’s seen it before, and he doesn’t doubt he’ll see it again. Solas is too composed, too quiet. It is always the ones who say the least who hide the best.

“She and I will not become more than what we are. She is not for me, and I would not presume to make her turn away- to distract her from her duty. We are good friends, I will admit I have never had a friend as close to me as the Herald is.” It wasn’t a lie. Not really. Mythal may have bade him take a body, may have initiated him into the ways of the Evanuris and helped him to adjust to life lived in the flesh, but even she was not as close to him as Jayla is.

“Chuckles, you and me need to sit down and have a chat sometime soon about that woman. Because I hear what you’re saying, but you clearly can’t see what I see.” Varric hastily cuts himself off as Jayla and Cassandra return to them.

“We’ve got a supplier of fruits and vegetables!” The young Herald is thrilled, her earlier disappointment momentarily swept away. She’s been fussing about a lack of produce for weeks. Varric’s happy this will be the end of that. Jayla could be relentless about some things. “We might get some actual drinks not made of alcohol now. Which would be great, I’ve burnt myself four times this week alone making sure the water was safe for the kids to drink.”

The dwarf side eyes Solas. Distract her from her duty, would he? Well what about the horde of kids Jayla thinks of as her own? Did he really think Jayla would endanger them in any way? He follows the women as they turn to search the Market for a Tavern and Inn. They’ve not gone more than a few feet when an arrow pierces the dirt at the black woman’s feet. Her yelp has weapons drawn in seconds.

“What the friggity frack?” She bends and yanks up the arrow. It’s got a folded red piece of paper attached to it that she takes off the shaft of the projectile. Her eyes move over the words, and after a pause she reads out the note.

“People say you’re special. I want to help, and I can bring everyone. There’s a baddie in Val Royeaux. I hear he wants to hurt you. Have a search for the red things in the market, docks, and ‘round the café and maybe you’ll meet him first. Bring swords. Signed, the Friends of Red Jenny.” A brow is raised as she finishes reading and turns over the paper to see a very crudely drawn map.

“Well okay then.” The others murmur amongst themselves and it is decided they will do as the note asked. If nothing else, it would reduce the threats against the Herald by one. Turning, Jayla almost trips over a man in robes who holds a very fancy envelope.

“Lady Shepard of the Inquisition, Herald of Andraste?” His question, his titling of her, makes her sag in defeat. Why was everyone here so caught up in titles!?

“Yes.”

“Madame de Fer requests the pleasure of your company at this evenings soiree in her home.” He says it as he hands over the envelope, bowing and abruptly walking away. Jayla is left speechless.

“Madame de Fer?” She mutters it and rips open the envelope not appreciating its gold leaf decoration or silver calligraphy address on the front. Sure enough the Invitation is the same, and she groans. A party, a baddie, and they have to make it to the Storm Coast in three days.

“It’s going to be a long ass night. Who wants to do this friends of Red Jenny business and who wants to go rub elbows with whoever this de Fer woman is?”

“She is the Imperial Enchanter, Herald.” Cassandra is quick to point out and also quick to excuse herself from the outing. “I will go seek out the person spoken of in the note. You should go to the clothing shop, you cannot go to her soiree in your armor, it would cause a scene and Josephine would likely have a heart attack.”

“I’ll be going with the Seeker.” Varric and Rickson both practically yell it, keeping Solas from answering. Neither of them flinch under either piercing gaze directed at them.

“It would seem, Herald, I will be accompanying you to the soiree. We best make preparations.” Solas looks as happy about this as Jayla feels. Felt, rather. Now he’s coming with her, she’s a little excited. Dressing Solas in more than leather and threadbare wool will be lovely.

“Well then, let get the rooms, get what we need from the market, do our shit and get out of here come sunrise.”

The rooms were comfortable, but hardly reflect the opulence of the Summer Market. Jayla finds that rather fascinating. It is very simple in decoration, and the Desk woman had been less than kind when it was made known Solas would be staying with them. Jayla had almost, _almost_ launched herself over the desk when she’d been asked if her _Rabbit_ would be bedding down in the **stables**.

“You look as if you might rip something to pieces, _Da’ara_. What troubles you?” They are walking around the shops. Both of them need something more suitable to wear than their field gear, Seeker’s orders. However, Jayla isn’t keen on taking Solas into a single one of these shops. Masked or not, she can see the looks people give them. He stands beside her, not behind her, he speaks to her, not to the ground beside her. She speaks to him not at him.

“I very well might. I don’t want to shop here. These people bother me. I won’t give them any of the Inquisition’s money.” She doesn’t bother to keep her words quiet. Let the bastards hear her. They should know what their disdain will lose them. Her companion’s ear twitches. It’s such a slight movement, most wouldn’t notice it at all. Jayla, however, spends entirely too much time studying Solas.

“If we do not shop here, where? Surely you do not wish us to go to this party naked, Herald.” The mischief in his tone makes her chuckle.

“But why not? Think of the gossip that would create!” She casually bumps her hip against his, his eyes cut over to her and for a moment she thinks he might curl an arm around her. He doesn’t, but the look in his eyes says he was thinking of doing something.

“All of the party goers would be quite distracted by you I’m sure. Though, I don’t think that’s the message we want to give of the Inquisition.” His lips twitch, just enough for her to tell he’s smiling.

“Spoil sport.” Mock pouting at him, she looks down one of the alleys past him. Beggars, homeless. The sight makes her sigh heavily. “No matter what city you go to, no matter what world, there will always be those who’ve been forgotten.”

Looking away, Jayla twists her hair into a bun at the back of her head. “What about the elves? Surely, we could wear something an Elven seamstress made? I’d rather give my coin to a business that needs it. If there were dwarven clothing merchants here, I’d consider them as well.”  Favoring those who aren’t in power has always been something worthwhile to Jayla. So what if she spent more? Most of the time those goods proved to be of better quality.

She thinks back to her shoes, still secured in her pack, and the woman who had made them. When Jayla first found her, it had taken two months to get her first two pairs. But they had lasted far longer than anticipated. She never bought from anyone else. It didn’t matter if they were double the price, it was worth it. Her heart hurts that she’ll probably never buy another pair of them again.

“Do you think I’ll ever go home?” The question startles her as much as it startles Solas. There are…flashes in his eyes. A myriad of emotions within a second before his face becomes carefully neutral. She hates that look. It means he knows something, probably something not great, and isn’t going to take much joy in letter her know about it.

“You were drawn by the cataclysm that made the Breach, _Da’ara_. To go home – if we could even replicate what drew you into the Fade in the first place – would require another similar set of circumstances. And – as you are of a different realm, there is no guarantee the cataclysm would not send you somewhere else entirely.” 

Jayla sighs, the momentary hope for home washed away. This was home now – for as long as she stays alive. Her hand seeks out Solas’ and she stays silent for a long time as they walk the streets of Val Royeaux. Eventually Solas takes the lead, drawing her through side streets and alleyways, until the opulence gives away to dinge. The brightly painted buildings are dirty and the crush of people has tripled. It makes her draw in a sharp breath, pressing close to Solas.

“Where are we?”

“The Alienage. Here is where we will find the seamstress you seek, _da’halla_.”

They wade through the crush of elves, dancing around the small one running through the sea of taller adults. The only humans Jayla spies are covered in armor, and everyone gives them a wide berth. Not well loved then. In the center of the rather small alienage, there is a tree. It is tall, the base quite large indicating age, but it is scorched in places. Children are playing there, an elder clearly holding lessons. Like the tree, the elder looks time worn. But worn nearly to the bone. The children are all small, just like those they have at home. Her hand tightens in Solas, earning her a questioning look.

“Everyone is so thin. Those kids –“

“This is the reality of living among humans for my people.” There is an edge to Solas’ voice, one that makes Jayla shrink into herself just a touch. She belongs to humans in the eyes of everyone around them. She is human, she’ll never renounce that - but she isn’t Thedosian, and their ideals will never be hers.

“Is there a way to help?” Her voice is small and Solas takes notice, the hardness in his face softening. He shakes his head and leads her on. Jayla’s heart falls. There must be a way to make things better. There’s got to be. She’d fine one, during all the other things she’s got to do – something like this, something unequivocally _good_ – can’t be put to the side.

The shop Solas brings her into is small, but brilliantly lit. Fabrics and premade dresses line the windows and walls. The dresses look so pretty and delicate she edges away from them, afraid if she touches them they may fall to pieces.

“Messere, welcome – “the greeting is cut short as the proprietress catches sight of Jayla. It makes the human woman flinch and she is quick to try and salvage the situation.

“Hello! Solas brought me to your shop, we need something extravagant to wear to a party tonight. Your designs are beautiful –“

“I imagine the Lady will desire something of a more…vogue design?” The distaste is evident and Jayla wants to quail, to hide behind Solas who is silent. Instead, she resolves to meet this head on. She pulls away from him, not letting go of his hand, but putting distance between them, standing as tall as she can.

“Orlesian dresses are foul. The waist is too low and the skirts are too full, the sleeves are a mess. No, I don’t want their fashions. I want …ethereal elegance. I want ... I want to look as if I was spun from the Fade itself.” Her voice is strong, and though she needs to look for words to describe what she feels the designs reflect, they are no less true. Her eyes flit to Solas, take in his height, his build.

“I want him to look as if everyone in the room should be bowing to him.”

He casts her a sharp look, but Jayla doesn’t waver. If anything, she tips her chin up defiantly. His head shakes, fingers squeezing hers gently before letting her go. “You play a dangerous game, my lady.”

The title makes her nose wrinkle and her lips pull into a frown. “Stop it, Solas. I play no game that doesn’t need to be played. I’ve spent the day enduring looks like we are scum for just _walking_ together. You were called a _rabbit_ today. I won’t have it, you are far more than what those assholes look at you as. Do you want that for the little ones at home? Hm? For them to have to be called rabbit and sneered at?”

The weight of what she’s seen is weighing on her. He can see it. But she has to know that this is folly. The shop mistress already looks alarmed and unsure about serving them. Those too wide eyes of hers widen more when Jayla mentions the children. This woman will be the end of him. Solas should be pleased beyond measure that the Herald wishes to display elven craftsmanship, that she would try to better the plight his people face. But all Solas can see is the way the Orlesians look at her. The more she favors him – favors elves, the more people will target her. The less influence she will ultimately have.

“ _Da’ara_ please. This is the way of things here. You cannot change the world in a day.” His ears are warm as he sighs his response.

His herald bristles and turns her attention back to the proprietress. “My desires stand, messere.  Make him look as if he is meant to be equal to the Herald of Andraste. Make us look like the Fade spat us out and all should take notice.” The steel in her voice has him relenting, keeping his peace on the subject. Jayla would do as she wished, and he could not sway her in this. He wonders, if this is connected to her own past in some fashion? The little human woman reacts viscerally to how elves are treated. He casts his mind back through their many talks.

He is so keen to pull apart what makes her so adamant to advocate for the elves, he misses the elven seamstress leading the Herald away.  The Wolf is recalling how she had mentioned her own people had been enslaved rather recently in her history by the sound of things. He flips the information over and over in his mind. He is so keen to pull apart what makes her so adamant to advocate for the elves, he misses the elven seamstress leading the Herald away.  She is far removed from that treatment so why is she so utterly passionate? The depths of her emotions are stunning, a beacon in a sea of mediocrity that this age feels is normal and right.

“Messere, we would have your opinion on this.” The heavy Orlesian accent draws him from his thoughts, draws his eyes to seamstress and Jayla. The Herald is swathed in green ring velvet, the dress strangely looking as if it had been made just for her. The paneling is perfect, the cut of the bodice accentuates rather than detracts from her modest bosom. Cut low, showing the tops of her shoulders it should scandalize – would have if not for the delicate sheer mint fabric that provides her modesty. Just enough to tease at what lay beneath. He walks around her, taking in the entire design. The skirts are full, but hang on her in such a manner it they become a sleek silhouette. If she sits, it will be evident how full they are, spread around her legs – he can picture it. She would look regal sitting. Which could only reinforce her station.

The arms of the dress are tight to the elbow and then trail nearly to the ground, velvet and sheer fabric together, all trimmed in silver. There are little chains looped on either shoulder, the cuffs on her arms are what seems to be silver sea silk and embroidery. The pattern is reminiscent of something likely found in elven ruins, halla and vines. The same pattern is repeated around her waist, again in in the silk. She wears no corset, he can’t see the lines, or the telltale bunching of laces at the back, but the dress holds her as if she were.

Her head tilts eyes sharp and trained on him, lips frowning as if worried as he makes his study of her of the mock cape that the dress boasts in that minty color. The dress makes her look delicate, as if she did indeed just step from the golden city and out of the fade. “Your design does her credit, Madam. I am afraid for a moment, I thought she was a vision rather than a person.”

It’s pleasing to see the way Jayla’s eye widen, red staining her cheeks. Her head ducks and she quietly thanks the seamstress. It would seem, in the time it took them to find this dress, the two had come to an understanding of some sort. He wonders as he is led away, if there is anyone Jayla cannot charm should she put her mind to it.

The dress was a grand idea, and his clothing? Even better. However, it makes the whole not walking down this road thing, that much harder. He’d been dressed to compliment, his shirt is white cotton, woven finely enough to have a bit of shine to it, but the jacket is a mint velvet to match the trim on her dress with golden detailing. His pants are black, and Jesus that woman must be attempting to kill her – they look painted on. His footwraps are the same color as his jacket, edged in gold trim. It’s so strange to see him out of armor and out of his normal clothing. She’s left breathless by the picture he makes.

He should be some Lord with a title, not a man who owned only what he could store in a pack.

“How much?” Jayla’s tongue seems to finally find itself and she wrenches her eyes from Solas to the seamstress – who looks quite pleased with herself. Pleasure radiates off the woman, and she chirps a number that has to be a joke. Jayla’s head shakes and she gives the seamstress double the asking price, telling her if they ever needed clothing again, they would be coming to her. Jayla even made the woman write down her name just so she would remember. Changing they went to their Inn to dress properly and store their travelling clothes before setting out for the soiree. Jayla is tense the entire ride, wondering what sort of woman Madame Vivienne de Fer is.

The Ghislaine Estate is impressive if a touch on the small side in Jayla’s eyes. It reminds her of a plantation with is sprawling grounds that hold little as they approach the chateau proper. The driveway is lined with limestone, polished carefully no doubt.  It seems to be the done thing in Orlais.

The carefully manicured lawn is lush verdant, and the foliage blooming. If Jayla was more aware of Thedosian flora, she would know the trees are all blooming out of season. Clearly made to do so to boast the Madame’s prowess and style.

The house itself, is colored in silvers and whites. It’s artfully done, it’s impossible for Jayla to tell if the whole house is made of polished stone or not. The floors, at least, she is fully aware are marble, a deep black that swallows the light. Her slippers – delicate things, crocheted to look like sandals with carefully hidden soles – make only a whisper of sound as she walks. The Herald allows Solas to guide her with a hand on her back up the stairs and into the vestibule. Every guest she lays eyes on has a mask that covers half or all of their face.

They are hideous and it takes all her willpower to school her features into placid disinterest. The human woman is beyond pleased the seamstress didn’t suggest such a thing for either of them. The Vestibule is huge, deceptively so. The house had looked small by chateau standards, but now the young mage sees she was mistaken. She could fit her childhood home in this area alone – an area that serves no purpose.

As they near the announcer, Jayla takes a deep steadying breath. They are ten feet away and she can see the way he has frozen, eyes on them in either confusion or shock. Now focused on the situation, she hears it – the murmurs, scandalized by Solas. It makes her lips pull into a dangerous smirk, predatory and challenging.

Solas is once again thrown by the little human he accompanies. She possesses more grace than she ought to for a woman with no house and no legitimate station among the nobles. Her steps are measured, her shoulders are back, she practically glides beside him. She is every inch a woman to take notice of and she exudes the aura of importance with seemingly no effort. He would be – is – proud of her, but he knows this era, for all he has only been awake a year. No matter how regale and commanding Jayla’s presence is, his presence at her side hurts that aura.

They stop by the bottom stair, before the open doors that lead into what they can only assume is the ballroom or receiving area. The masked servant watches them with narrow eyes, and Jayla, living up to Varric’s nickname, looks down her nose at him, her smile becoming fuller, more dangerous than the smirk.

“ _Bon Nuit_ ” Jayla should thank Leliana and Josephine for thinking to give her important phrases in prominent languages. “Lady Jayla Shepard, Herald of Andraste accompanied by Ser Solas, Fade Expert and Advisor to the Inquisition.”

Her voice rings strong and true through the vestibule and Solas cannot help the way he puts more pressure on her back. She is painting a target on her back even as she postures. He is proud of her, taking her title and using it, but he is worried that she will get herself in trouble. This will get back to the true advisors, and he is well aware of how big a problem it will cause. She pushes the envelope too far at times.

The silence that reigns lasts for a nearly uncomfortable period of time, but Jayla and Solas stand tall, not bowing under the oppressive gazes of the gathered nobles. It goes on long enough, the Herald makes a dramatic sounding sigh, plucking at her dress and looking around her in a bored manner.

“How utterly droll. Madame Vivienne invited us by personal invitation, I can only imagine what sort of woman allows her people to act this way in the presence of an esteemed guest. Shall we leave, Solas? I am becoming bored of waiting to be announced.”

He bites his cheek to keep from laughing. Princess indeed, and such a little actress. He had no idea the depth of her ability. The wolf is quite impressed with her. Utterly impressed.  “If my Lady so desires. I shall go and order the carriage back.”

Solas moves to do as she has threatened, leave and shame the Lady de Fer. There are eyes on them now, the whispering has stopped. The rather rude human looks as if he might strain something. Finally, he takes a half step forward. “Forgive me, Lady Herald. I was stunned by your most ethereal beauty. Truly you are Maker touched.”

That predatory look is back, the one that sends shocks through Solas. Enough he trains his eyes on the man in front of him, shifting back to his previous position, left arm behind his back, right hand on the small of Jayla’s back. “Of course, of course. No, announce us. We’ve a journey tomorrow, after all.”  Her voice is honey but her eyes say nothing pleasant to the human in front of them. He stammers and moves back to where he had been standing.

“The Lady Herald of the Inquisition, Jayla Shepard and Ser Solas, Fade Expert and Advisor to the Inquisition.”

Solas presses her forward as he shifts his weight, and together they ascend the stairs. Her grace does not waver a moment, her steps not making a sound on the stone steps. She betrays no wonder at the silvered room where the guests linger. If anything, she looks bored. Pride does surge through him then; his magic chose well. This woman would see them through the storm.

A server with a tray passes to their left and Solas reaches for two glasses, wordlessly handing one to Jayla. They wouldn’t be here long, and the ancient mage had no idea when they would again be able to indulge in champagne. They shift to begin mingling, strangely in tune with one another when two people approach them.

“A pleasure, my lady. We so rarely have a chance to meet anyone new. It is always the same crowd at these parties.” The man entirely ignores Solas, which is what he expected, speaking directly to Jayla. In fact, the man doesn’t even look at him. He can feel the Herald bristle, and moves to be just a step behind her, pressing his aura gently against hers. It seems to calm her, he feels an answering press in return.

“So, you must be a guest of Madame de Fer. Or are you here for Duke Bastien?” “Are you here on business?” A woman appears beside the man, her collar making the Herald’s eyes widen a touch. Were he not so close to her, Solas would have missed the action.

“I have heard the most curious tales of you. I cannot imagine half of them are true!” She looks to the side, as if conferring with the man she had stopped beside.

Jayla sips at the champagne a moment before questioning the woman, “And what is it you’ve heard of me, _mon cheri_?” Please Jesus let that be what it was on her world. This Orlesian was close to French, not perfect, but close, she hopes the standard endearments are the same.

The collared woman titters, a hand coming to hide her mouth – not that it needs hiding, the blasted collar all but obscures it as is. “You are refreshing, my Lady. Some say, that when the veil opened, Andraste herself delivered you from the Fade.”

The Herald blinks, her face working carefully to not betray anything. One of her arms curls around her middle, the elbow of her other lazily leaning against it. She appears so comfortable, Solas knows she can’t be, not here amongst vapid sycophants like these. “ _Mon ami_ , everything you’ve heard? Completely true – Andraste herself guided me from the turmoil of the dreaming world.”

He swallows quickly to avoid choking on the beverage. His _da’halla_ isn’t so meek as he would have assumed in this situation. He did her a disservice assuming this would be a trial. Fortunate. Solas isn’t sure what could be done if Jayla had no aptitude for such events. He wagers there will be more than one she must attend to get the backing they would need in the future.

“Better and better,” her voice grates on his ears as she steps forward, daring brush her hand against Jayla’s as if they were sharing some secret. “The Inquisition should attend more of these parties.”

The Herald smiles thinly opening her mouth to make a remark when loud steps and a louder voice cut above the quiet rumble of voices. “The Inquisition? What a load of pig shit!” The offending man swaggers down the grand staircase, walking until he stops before Jayla and Solas.

“Washed up sisters and crazed seekers? Rabbits who grasp at greatness? No one can take them seriously.” He crosses in front of Jayla, close enough he almost bumps into her and Solas braces himself for an altercation. He didn’t take well to insults, and Jayla is bristling with him. This will be the straw to break her. He places his hand on her back.  “Everyone knows it is just an excuse for a bunch of political outcasts and nobodies to make a grab for power.”

Her fingers clench dangerously around the wine flute. “You dare malign the Inquisition? We are the only power looking to restore peace in these lands and bring Divine Justinia’s killer to justice.”

“Of course, you are,” the pompous fool snipes with a self-satisfied smirk on his lips. “I am sure your troops are out scouring the hills for her murder as we speak. When know what your Inquisition truly is –“Solas tenses as he comes within breathing distance of the Herald, invading her personal space as he speaks. “IF you were a woman of any honor at all you would step outside and answer the charges.”

His hand reaches for his sword, and Jayla produces her dagger in a rather astonishing feat of speed. Solas doesn’t even know where the bloody thing came from, or that she’d had it on her person. Clearly Mughen and Talen were training her well indeed. He had not thought her to be so prepared – or so willing to brandish her weapon in a public setting. But it isn’t needed, the moment the brute’s fingers touch the hilt of the sword his is frozen in place.

The aura is unfamiliar and he can make only one assumption as the caster comes into view – it seems the First Enchanter has decided to make an appearance. “My dear Marquis, how unkind of you to use such language in _my_ house – to _my_ guests. You know such rudeness is, intolerable.”

The first enchanter cuts an impressive figure. Jayla is suitably impressed, lowering her weapon, sliding it back under her skirts as stealthily as possible through what likely served as a pocket for other women. It had been a whim to carry something on her, sort of a call back to when she’d had pepper spray in her purse when she went out for drinks or recreational dancing. But, Vivienne is fascinating. Monochrome blue silver outfit, silver tipped hat that reminds Jayla very strongly of Maleficent. She puts on quite the show.

The Marquis cowers in his temporary tomb of frost. “Madame Vivienne, I humbly beg your pardon.”

“You should. Whatever am I going to do with you my dear?” She circles the prone man like a shark that smelled blood in the water. Jayla watches with narrowed eyes, Solas with interest.

“My lady,” Vivienne turns, gazing upon the pair, and once again Solas finds himself ignored. He has ceased to care. “You are the wounded party in this unfortunate affair, what would you have me do with this foolish, foolish man.”

The question makes the dark woman, darker by a shade than the First enchanter, he idly notes, rear back. Her body presses against his side, but he doesn’t move and she moves no further from the scene. Her eyes are shrewd and she takes in the people around her, the stance of the mage before her. Clearly, she is attempting via context to figure out what she must say, the steps she must take in this dance. He quietly applauds her.

“Madame Vivienne, how terrible to tarnish our first meeting this way. As for the brute who so slandered my people – do with him as you will. I won’t waste one more moment in consideration of him, he isn’t deserving of it.”  Her voice is soft, but steady. Solas suppresses a smile. The answer has the room a flutter. The Herald dances this dance rather well. He’ll need to ask her how she knows it. It surprises Vivienne, whose dark eyes widen before they return to their normal size.

She turns to the Marquis, her fingers tapping on his chest. “My, my. It seems you live another day, my dear. Andraste has blessed you with a Herald who knows the value of a clean floor and an undisturbed party. As I recall, that vest was meant for the Grand Tourney, was it not? I’m so honored you have chosen to grace us with your attendance here, I was sure all the participating Chevalier and Knights rode off this morning.”

He is unfrozen with a thought, and the man stumbles away from the trio, his neck betraying his embarrassment. Vivienne only makes it worse as she smiles so sweetly while he makes for the door. “Do send your Aunt my most sincere regards, Darling.”

And just like that, the drama is over. The Herald has proven herself before these nobles to stand on equal ground with them. If they accomplish nothing else tonight, Jayla has a significant victory to hold onto. Before long, Vivienne draws the Herald away, and Solas finds a shadow to stand in, sipping at his champagne, awaiting the return of his companion. He has gotten through a second glass when Jayla appears to his right, gliding down the staircase. It is nothing to set aside the flute and return to her side.

“Ah, Solas. Come, we are done here.” He can’t tell if the meeting went well or poorly from her tone, but soundlessly nods, walking just a step behind her and to her right.  Perhaps on the carriage ride to the Inn she will tell him what it was exactly the Madame de Fer requested her presence for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Da'ara - little want/little desire  
> poe kamalii - little one(s)
> 
> So we covered a bit of ground here, with Jayla exhibiting a facet of dancing not many people attribute to dancers - the ability to act. After all, dancing is a performance just like any stage play. Next chapter we get a gang of seven to ride to meet the Iron Bull and Bull's Chargers! Perhaps a little exposition into Jayla's background as well? Maybe some party banter?
> 
> Game dialogue has been tweaked a touch in places, but I tried to stay true to script for these cut scenes.


	22. Well. That Happened.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sera. Bull. The unexpected!

When the carriage door closes, and starts to move, Jayla slumps, hopping to sit next to Solas. Her head settles on his shoulder and she sighs. “So, she is a circle mage, one who somehow has standing. According to her she is the leader of the loyal mages, and would bring not only herself, her extensive magical knowledge, and those bodies for us to use within the inquisition.”

She sounds tired, he cannot see her face to confirm the truth of it. He hums softly, a non-committal sound meant to encourage her to keep speaking. It works, but not after a lengthy pause.

“I’m not sure what to make of her. She – hinted that being seen with you as I was would be detrimental to my standing. As if I gave a fig about it, but to her it seemed like a vital thing. I’m not sure that a person so consumed by the superficial is one we want at our backs. However, she has a different perspective on magic than you and I. To have a narrow field of view isn’t always a good thing. She favors Templars, which neither of us do either…” She is reasoning things out. Solas likes none of what he has heard of Vivienne so far, though he will agree – Jayla forcing his companionship with her into the eyes of nobles would not win her any favor.

“She’s accomplished, that much is apparent. First Enchanters must be able to do something, right? Right. So. Powerful mage, knows how the circles work. I could use her to make my story more believable. I know next to nothing about circle life, and while my tutors know my disdain, no one else seemingly does. She might be able to reason with some rogue factions of mages or Templars as well. Something familiar to draw them to us rather than letting them run wild across the countryside…” Jayla lifts her head, looking convinced. “I’ll send her a formal invitation with a thank you for inviting us into her home when we get to the Inn.”

The rest of the ride passes in silence, the two of them sitting hip to hip, the comfortable nature of their friendship allowing the silence to hang without discomfort. When the carriage stops, Jayla all but flies out of it, murmuring about it being more uncomfortable than a horse saddle, and darting inside to get one of the workers to grab a runner. Retrieving paper and quill from the desk worker, she carefully, painstakingly writes the thank you and invitation. It’s filled with flowery praise and delight to have a mage of the First Enchanters caliber among those she could count as her most trusted.

Handing it off, Jayla is quite surprised when Rickson and the rest appear from inside the Inn. Her head tilts, brows drawing together in question. “I thought you all were going to get this Red Jenny?”

“It’s barely tenth bell, Princess.” Varric smirks, eyeing them both critically. “Don’t you just look the part tonight, too. Have fun rubbing elbows with the upper echelons?”

Jayla’s nose wrinkles and she audibly huffs. “No. What a bunch of pricks. Seriously, I’d almost rather beg for scraps than play nice with people like that. But, if I made enemies, Ambassador Montilyet would skin me alive. So, I played nice. It wasn’t fun. I got insulted, you lot got insulted. Solas was insulted. I hate people who hide bullshit under rose petals.”

The quiet that falls over the group makes her blink. She’d been staring off into space remembering the pomposity held in a single room. Too much by her count, far, far too much. But Cassandra and Rickson look – fascinated? She can’t tell. There might be empathy in Cassandra’s eyes. Rickson just – she doesn’t know Eric will enough yet to read him. Varric – Varric looks like he just ate a big old pan of custard he’d been after for years.

“What?”

“Princess, we’re just all wondering how you, of all people, managed not to make enemies when you’re so …outspoken about things you don’t like.”

“Clearly I didn’t speak about them, Varric.” She looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “You can’t have lived this long in life without buttering people up? Can you?” She looks at them all with squinted eyes. “Seriously, I did what anyone would do when they need something from someone. I played the part.”

“Princess, if you played a part so well there are nobles calling for your head, I’d say you’ve got a talent.” She’d be a rogue yet. Maybe even a bard if she could blend as well as they’re thinking she did. In that dress? The only possible thing that could hurt her is Solas. He was going to need to get some ears to the ground on this. It’s too perfect to let go.

“Talent? Listen you have clearly _never_ seen or met teenagers from Ea – Rivain. This is a survival skill. Different is social suicide unless you’re so untouchable people are simply forced to follow the trail you blaze. Nobles? I’ll take Nobles any day of the week over going back to high school and dealing with that shit again. Fuck I’ll take it over the petty Prima wannabes who will lay your ass out in a heartbeat over a random comment. Let the Nobles come at me, I’m not worried about it, I know these dance steps.” Jayla is completely unconcerned. Whatever talent they thought she had was carefully cultivated to make her life that much easier. No one got anywhere in life unless they knew who to talk to and how to talk to them.  Jayla may have no standing now – but people looked to her as so the Herald of Andraste – god touched, prophetess.

That is heavy shit, and yes, it’s taken her months to realize it, yes it took Vivienne to make her realize it, but that title would mean something. She was going to have a hand in steering history. Jayla wouldn’t let it pass her by. “So, let me get changed, well, let us get changed, and we’ll go meet Red Jenny. Did they tell you were to meet them?”

She breezes past the Seeker and Varric, who look a bit like they’ve swallowed frogs, toward the stairs that would lead to her room. Solas isn’t far behind her, close enough he smacks into her when she stops to ask again. The words die in her throat, because he’s looking at her like she’s the finest of wines and he’s thirsty as hell. Shit, fuck, damn it. She has to sleep next to him. Fuck.

“Guys? Map? Meeting place, we get one?”

“Yeah, it’s shit but we got one. Hurry up, let’s get this done before midnight so we can get a few hours of sleep in.”

The Herald bolts up to their shared room. What was she thinking. What was he thinking looking at her like that? Why is she running from him like a virgin on her wedding night? Jayla’s fingers pull the tiny buttons from their places, wanting to get undressed and redressed as fast as she’s able. No more near nakedness around Solas. No more… whatever the hell that made him look like _that_.

The top button won’t come undone, no matter how she twists and turns, how far up she shoves her bodice, she can’t reach it. With a sound of utter frustration, the dread locked woman grabs for her leather breeches from her pack. They are tossed on the bed, and she sits on it in a huff, pulling off her delicate sandal slippers. She’s got her dress up around her knees when Solas opens the door.

Her fingers freeze, and she has a moment, where she doesn’t move. Just one, before she’s slipping that sandal off as well and grabbing her breeches and shoving her legs into them one at a time. Standing she gives a little hop and acts – or tries to act, like this is any other day with Solas. They’re best friends. They’re close. This is fine. This is normal. Nothing weird here. Nope.

He saw it in the way her magic coiled around her when she spoke down stairs. The little Alpha was finding her feet. She had plans, her aura had flared when she’d finished speaking. The flare tasted of anticipation. She had intent. After tonight’s show Solas doesn’t doubt it. Their shared house is full of children, elven children, she flaunts her only Elven companion not as an accessory but as a man and the cumulative of that makes him shiver. What did he want for their small ones waiting in Haven?

He wanted them to be able to live as he did, he wanted to remove the scar tissue that separated them from their soul pair, that dulled their emotions, that left them mortal and without magic. He wants them to be looked upon as equals within the other races of the world. No longer slaves to scrape and bow, or thrown into the Qun a hopeless awful religion that would suppress the spirit rather than let if flourish. Jayla could help him with this. She would help him with this.

Her legs are on display when he makes it into the room. Legs Solas has seen before. How many times has he seen them now? They shouldn’t be alluring, and yet, the way she pauses, how her breath is caught, the barest hint of the swell of her breasts seen at her neckline. He forces himself to move to his pack, to pull out his own clothing while she shoves herself into hers.

His fingers tug gently at the laces holding the neck of his shirt open before undoing the buttons of his coat. Each are removed in turn, folded with care and placed to the side. Solas had no idea when he might need clothing of this caliber again during his time with the Inquisition, perhaps never, that didn’t mean he shouldn’t treat it with care.  He is bare from the waist up when Jayla makes a strangled noise and his head swivels to look at her.

Her dress is still on and she’s looking at him with wide eyes. Her pupils have taken up more of her iris than normal. He takes a subtle breath. **Oh**. “Jayla?”

His voice snaps her out of it, whatever it is. “I can’t get the last button on this damned thing undone.” She makes an about face, showing him her back. There is a small expanse of her skin that he can see. That he has seen before numerous times now. But yet - the man needs swallow as he takes silent steps toward her. It’s the flick of two fingers to get the dress undone.  That should be it. Solas should step away, will step away. He’s thinking about it so hard and yet his hand still smooths against the now exposed skin of her shoulder blade. The sharp intake of her breath doesn’t make him jump away as if burned.

He trusts Jayla would tell him to stop. He has to trust that, lest he become a bigger monster than he already is. His thumb slides back and forth over a small patch of skin, and neither of them move past that. Silence is thick and cloying between them, a move will change everything. He knows these moments, can readily identify them after years of missing the mark.

It's his thumb, one hand. That’s it. That’s all the skin that’s touching her right now. This is ridiculous, they sleep together habitually, her hands have been all over that man by this point. But somehow this is different, there’s something keeping her from moving. If she moves, - too many variables. Far too many variables.

Her brain and body seem to be working on different wavelengths however, and Jayla turns to face him. He’s damn tall and very shirtless. His nostrils are flared, the blue of his eyes almost down to near sliver proportions, and his head tilts at her. It’s such a strange way to tilt his head, and yet it is utterly Solas. His hand hovers between them, just for a moment before it settles on the junction of her shoulder and her neck. His thumb swipes across her skin again and lord above she wants to kiss this man.

Her eyes drop to his mouth and Solas feels whatever tether to sanity he has left fray. Her lips are berry pink, they always are, and it suits her perfectly. He wonders if she will still taste of champagne or if too much time has passed for him to sample it from her lips. Her lips move, and he leans forward.

 It’s a little bit like the world stops moving when his lips press against hers. It’s tentative, chaste, neither of them move, eyes wide as they study one another. One tense moment, and it shatters when she parts her lips to speak. The hand on her neck drags her forward and her hands land on his stomach, shifting up onto her toes to reach his mouth better. It’s a whirl of activity, one second she’s on her toes, the next Jayla has been hoisted into Solas’ arms, her legs wrapped around his waist and her hands holding onto his shoulders for dear life.

It’s very much as if he’s been lost in a desert and finally found water. Something about this little mortal woman has drawn him in from the first day they spoke. She had trusted him when she should not have, forgiven him when she shouldn’t have. This woman had made a little cabin in the mountains a home, and then moved children into it. He presses her back against the wall without realizing he’d moved. With her her balanced like this, pinned between him and the wall, his hands are free, removing themselves from her waist and pulling at the loose neckline of her dress.

She lets him, spirits bless her, she lets him, helps him, pulling her arms from the sleeves and wrapping her arms around his neck to draw him in closer to her. She tilts her head, her lips part and her tongue swipes at the seam of his. Solas feels like he’s on fire, opening his mouth for her, groaning quietly when she takes the kiss and leads it. His mind is on other things, about the smooth quality of her skin, how sweetly her skin smells, how she fits with him rather well for being a human from another world.

“Princess? Chuckles? Are you two coming with us to get Jenny or are you going to sleep? Or are you going to make some more little elflings for everyone to coo at?”Varric’s voice breaks whatever momentum toward absolute chaos they had been caught in. Their lips part, reluctantly, hands move to safe places, but they are still wrapped up in one another. Solas is the one to recover first, pulling Jayla from the wall and setting her on her feet.

“A moment Varric, we were caught up in a discussion on the qualities of – “

“Fade shit. I got it. Five minutes or I’ll be telling the Seeker to come get you.”  It’s a miracle the dwarf doesn’t call Solas out on the rough quality of his voice, or the subtle strain in it. Solas thanks his lucky stars, and turns from Jayla to dress. This had been a mistake.

Fuck. Holy shit. She kissed him. She kissed the _hell_ out of him. It was like a magnet, like his lips called her lips and she just had to. This is bad. Very bad. Damn it. Solas is important to her. She doesn’t want to fuck things up. She can’t screw a friendship up, not one like this. She’s never had a friend like Solas.  Her hands move on autopilot as she strips off her dress and pulls on her shirts and vest. Mechanically her fingers tie ties and shove fabric into breeches so no one had a possible hand hold.

Damn it.

Jayla appears down stairs, her helmet under arm, daggers at her back. Solas isn’t far behind, his hands adjusting the wolf pelt his armor sported. She won’t look at him, and he won’t look at her. His armor makes him too – he looks too much like everything she wants. And he can’t look at her because she simply _is_ everything he wants.  A partner that could stand beside him and weather the coming storm.

“Let’s get this show on the road. I need some sleep.” Her gruff words make Eric and Cassandra blink, but not Varric. He wordlessly holds up the map for her to take as she strides past him. She plucks the parchment from his hands and moves like a woman on a mission. His Princess is growing up. He hadn’t been sure in the field, but now they’ve relaxed, and now they’ve gotten back in the saddle? Yeah, she’s not the same scared little girl they found at the Temple of Ashes.

 

“Okay but who the fuck draws a map like this?” She’s grumbling as they back track for the fourth time. The map is shit, and red jenny hasn’t got a good goddamn clue about how to guide people to her position. Twenty minutes more and Jayla is ready to give up, this is the last door she’s going to try. Imagine her shock when a fireball flashes by her head.  She flinches away from it only to have to dance away from a second shot at her opposite side.

“The fuck?”

“Herald of Andraste! How much did you expend to discover me?” A little man with aa - he looks like a fucking gremlin took residence on his face is talking to her. He’s got a puffy frilly shirt and shoes that make her want to shake someone.  Before she can tell him, she didn’t expend fuck all to find him, he continues to speak. “It must have weakened the Inquisition Immeasurably!”

“Listen, half pants. I don’t know who you are.”

That gets his attention. He looks quite offended, if the way he tilts that gremlin mask is a good indication. “You don’t fool me! I’m too important for this to be an accident! My efforts will survive in victories against you elsewhere.”

Her eyes narrow and she’s ready to give him a mouthful when the sound of a man dying hits her ears. It’s a sound she knows well. A thud, a yelp and another thud against the ground. Her head swivels and her hands move to grasp her daggers. A second player meant this was going to go poorly.

Another man goes down, just to the left, in front of the stairs beside a rather conveniently stacked trio of crates. He falls and reveals a girl who can’t be much older than Jayla is. Blood on her clothes, quiver on her back, bow in hand. Jayla tugs at the veil ready to wrap herself in it, when the woman takes aim at the talking gremlin.

“Just say “what”!”

That stops Jayla dead in her tracks. The fuck? Just say what? The archer is – she doesn’t even know. But gremlin turns, “What is the –“and down he goes, an arrow to the eye. The Herald shifts, her head moving between the archer and the body. The archer looks rather disgusted. It throws her. Jayla gets upset about killing, but the archer did it without blinking. But now she’s grossed out?

“Squishy one, but you heard me, right? “Just say what.” Rich tits always try for more than they deserve.” The archer speaks as she moves toward the body and Jayla is compelled to move forward as well. This night has been surreal. Utterly surreal. “Blah, Blah, Bl- _ah_! Obey me! Arrow in my face!”

The blonde with a frankly unfortunate haircut pulls the arrow from the dead man’s eye. It makes the Herald’s stomach roll. “So. Your people found the notes for you.” Jayla notices the narrowed eyes and disapproving tone. She says nothing. She doesn’t need to validate their choices.

“Glad to see you’re…” The elven woman’s face betrays her lack of enthusiasm. Her lips pull into a frown and her eyes become a little disappointed. “You’re kind of plain, really. All that talk, and then you’re just – a person. I mean… It’s all good, innit? The important thing is: you glow? You’re the Herald thingy?”

Jayla has no idea how to frigging handle this. She shakes her head, carefully scratching at it while making sure she didn’t stab herself in the face. “Sure, why not. I glow. What the hell is going on exactly?”

“No idea, I didn’t know this idiot from manners. My people just said the Inquisition should look at him.”  Jayla blinks slowly and resists the urge to sigh or say anything. Wouldn’t people saying the Inquisition should look into a person mean – keep him alive for questioning?

“Your people? We talking elves or archers or what?” Her eyes narrow and her tone turns a touch suspicious. People watching Nobles, reporting on them? That could be really useful. Could be ridiculously helpful in the long run. _If_ that’s what miss crazy pants is talking about.

“Hah! You’re not stupid. People people, the 'or what' in your sentence.”  The blonde looks quite pleased and smiles at the Herald. None of the others can make sense of this meeting for the life of them. Not like the Herald could either, but that’s not - apparently – the important part.

“Name’s Sera. This is cover. Get round it.” A pale finger points at the boxes and darts off for a better vantage point. She throws over her shoulder. “For the reinforcements. Don’t worry! Someone tipped me their equipment shed. They’ve got no breeches.”

To say the night had been surreal prior to that sentence had been a grievous mistake. Fighting and killing twenty men running around in chain mail and their knickers took the night to being truly surreal. The lot of them barring Solas are covered in flecks of blood, but the threat, whatever the fuck it had been, is dealt with. Jayla counts four more souls on her shoulders. Her hands run over her face tiredly before she speaks with the archer. It’s not a lengthy conversation, Jayla is tired and wants to know exactly who the hell Sera is and what she brings to the Inquisition if she joins. A lot of confusion later, the blonde grins, says she’ll meet them at Haven, and skips from the court yard, yelling for them to grab the bag of breeches and sell them.

It’s a quiet walk back to the Inn. It’s a quiet sponge bath while hidden by a privacy screen. It’s an awkward attempt to sleep in Solas’ arms without talking about the way they’d nearly consumed one another. What they should have done was sleep separately. They both knew they weren’t for the other, that this was going to end with one of them going hurt – but for very different reasons. Jayla doesn’t think she’d live through this, and if she does, she’ll never not be the Herald of Andraste. Solas – Solas knows his duty, and he can’t stray from it. Not for her. Not for anyone.

The morning finds Jayla short with everyone, her weariness etched on her face and in her movements. She’d visited the children, but every time she felt Solas approaching, she’d run from their dream. It had not been a restful way to sleep.

“You look like hell, Princess.” Varric grimaces when he sees her, blinking when all the young woman does is flip him off and glare. With no announcement or fanfare, she pulls herself up onto Eric’s mount with him. He looks shocked, Cassandra as well. Varric wonders what the hell Chuckles did to make Jayla go to Rickson – _again_.

Solas isn’t faring any better than Jayla is. He’d spent the night plagued by Desire, fending them off long enough to visit the little one’s dreams as he had promised before having to fend off the spirits once more. It was not simple desire that followed him, no, he wasn’t so lucky. Lust came for him in Jayla’s form, her dress around her waist as it has been before Varric interrupted them. Passion brought with it memories of the way she had kissed him. Relentless, like a wildfire, she took, and took, but he willingly gave. Longing reminded him of the nights they spent wrapped in one another, without the stiffness that was currently creating a rift between them. Craving and Yearning showed him a future with Jayla and the children in it. Her eyes glow – indicating her spirit had found her, her belly is round, her magic blanketing the home they share –  his last fortress. But it feels right, welcoming, their little ones are older, with partners of their own.

He shakes the memories of dreams from his head, scowl on his face. This was why he resisted the pull to her. This was why he couldn’t stray from his path. Jayla – if he succeeded in his plan would likely die. Though, he cannot be sure. She is not of this world. She lacks things that would mark her for death, but that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t. His hands rub at his temples once he is astride his mount, Jayla’s mare’s reins wrapped around the pommel of his saddle.

The first day to the Storm Coast is silent. The second day is oppressively so. The fourth finds Jayla and Varric sniping at one another, but no one can tell if it is in kindness or not as they pull into the forward camp on the Storm Coast. Harding briefs them on the state of the place, as the clouds break overhead and drop rain down on them. The Herald looks like a drowned rat, and her patience with things wanes thin as they make the trek to the coast on foot.

They are saved from her snapping on anyone by the sound of fighting. For the first time, they see Jayla take the lead, pulling her weapons and wrapping herself in the veil only to reappear behind a mage and shoving the blades between his ribs. The shock of it keeps the party still, Varric almost dropping Bianca. It’s only when an arrow narrowly misses Cassandra they dive into the fray. It’s a strange battle, the robes of the smugglers only just giving them away as the Tevinter targets. The group of five Inquisition soldiers dance their way through the fight, darting from place to place where they were needed.

When it’s over, Jayla is covered in blood. It makes Solas cringe, and Varric pales at the vacant look in her eyes when the adrenaline wears off. She stares down at the archer she’d killed last. The dark woman likely would have stayed like that. Solas moves to go to her when the Qunari who had been addressing his men, strides over to her, clapping her on the back so hard the mage come rogue almost falls over.

“So kid, you’re with the Inquisition huh? Glad you could make it. Come on, have a seat, drinks are coming.” The giant of a man guides the still dazed woman to a piece of drift wood plopping down in front of her. The moment he’s mostly eye level with her is the moment she sees the horns.

“Holy shit.” Those brown eyes turn into saucers and it makes the Qunari roar with laughter. She fidgets but then after spotting the Lieutenant off behind them makes a connection. “Literal name much? You must be the Iron Bull.”

Solas and the others edge closer to the meeting, worried for the way the Herald seems to be completely fine. Her aura clings to her skin, and her face is paler than it normally is – she clearly is not fine.

“What’s wrong with literal? Makes it easy for people to tell, y’know, with the horns.”

“Y’don’t say.” She sways in place, covering it by crossing her legs and sitting her ass down on the wet beach pebbles.

“You’re funny kid. I assume you remember Cremisius Aclassi, my lieutenant.”  As if summoned the man is by Jayla’s side, armor a bit blood spattered, but looking the same as he had in Haven. His head tilts down at her and he nods, the barest hint of a smile on his face.

“Good to see you again.” His eyes shift to the horned man. “Throatcutters are done, Chief.”

The word makes Jayla’s throat work, and she pales more. Solas reaches out to her with his magic, trying to comfort her, something, anything to keep her from getting sick in front of someone she might need to recruit. And if she wasn’t, they didn’t need rumors of the Herald having a weak stomach.

“Already?” The one visible eye the scarred grey colored man widens before it narrows a touch. “Have’em check again. I don’t want any of those Tevinter bastards getting away. No offense, Krem.” He laughs shortly, a chuckle, and Jayla watches the scene unsure what to make of it.

“None taken,” her eyes narrow at the Lieutenant, Cremisius. His voice is rather melodic. More than any man she’s ever met. “Least a bastard knows who his mother was. Puts him one up on you Qunari, right?”  Her mouth drops open as he turns nonchalantly and heads back to the rest of his company. She can’t imagine speaking so candidly with anyone who paid her. He’s her new hero. There’s a pause, and the feeling of being watched has her head swiveling quickly. Enough half of her hair comes undone from it’s coil. The damned helmet was constantly screwing with her hair. She pulls it off her head and shakes, the rest of the coils settling around her shoulders.

“So. You’ve seen us fight. We’re expensive, but we’re worth it… And I’m sure the Inquisition can afford us.” The confidence in the Iron Bulls voice has Jayla’s brows reaching for the sky. Must be nice to know. She wasn’t even positive how the Inquisition was making money let alone how much they had and could spend on things like mercenaries.

“Whoa. _Whoa_ how much is this going to cost me, exactly? Because Ambassador Montilyet is not a woman to be trifled with.” Her stomach is still rolling, and the idea of Josephine coming after her for hiring on people they can’t afford? It makes her want to heave even more. A wave of magic settles over her, trying still to calm her frayed being.

“Personally? It wouldn’t cost you a dime. Unless you want to buy drinks later – or admire my prowess up close and personal. The Ambassador – what’s her real name- Josephine? We’d go through her and get payment set up.” The Herald’s mouth drops open. Her eyes dart back and forth between his before she snorts. So, he’s a flirt. Well, that’s a bit of a change up. That or he’s one of those who test all the waters they can find.

“Sorry – I’m. I’m not looking to do any admiring of anything.” Her head ducks as she mentally castrates herself for nearly saying I’m taken. What is wrong with her? That was a mistake. They’d been fine for two days. Clearly things would go right back to normal and this. Ugh. Also – wait a second. How did he know Josephine’s name? She hadn’t said Ambassador Josephine. Cremisius hadn’t met her either…

Dark eyes narrow and the Iron Bull just grins. “Well, no matter. Anyway. The gold will take care of itself. Don’t worry about that. All that matters is we’re worth it.” Again, the confidence in that statement has her head tilting. For real? No number just a ‘we’re worth it’? Clearly this man has never met a woman who wants to know a price before she says she’ll buy it. No prices on a menu means it’s too damned expensive.

“Well, I can’t say you don’t know how to kill things. The company seems useful.”  Her words are careful, and have the barest hint of quaver as she finally realizes she needs to put away her blades. Blades that are still covered in blood. Gingerly she pulls a cloth out to wipe them down. They’ll need oiling later. If that red tint will ever come off….

“They are. But you won’t just be getting the boys. You’re getting _me_.” His eye is on her again, and he’s leaning forward. Jayla feels like she should move away. That eye is intense, watery green blue and searching. Her eyes move away. “You need a frontline bodyguard, kid, I’m your man. Whatever it is – Demons, Dragons? The bigger, the better.”

He stands a bit abruptly and her head snaps up. This cat has to be seven feet tall and built like a damned wall. She scrambles to her feet, blades in their sheaths half cleaned. He moves farther from her people, and she hasn’t got much choice but to follow. He’s half way to a boat when he turns.

“There’s one more thing. Might be useful, might piss you off.” Oh. Goody. Lets hope she even knows what he’s talking about. “Ever hear of the Ben-Hassrath?”

“Nope.” She pops the p and hopes to hell this isn’t something that’s common knowledge or her cover is going to be…problematic. He doesn’t seem surprised, however.

“It’s a Qunari order. They handle information, loyalty, security, all of it. Spies, basically. Or well, **we’re** spies.” She takes a second to process that. Information. Security. _Loyalty_? What the fuck kind of society were Qunari a part of?? Also – did he just? What the fuck. How the fuck is this place real. For Christ’s dimpled asscheek’s sake! Spies. Crazy Archers. Loyal Mage leader. Who were these people?! The Iron Bull takes her reaction in, and keeps talking when her face evens out.

“The Ben-Hassrath are concerned about the Breach.” Well, no shit. Who isn’t? “Magic out of control like that could cause trouble everywhere.” Again, no shit. “I’ve been ordered to join the Inquisition, get close to the people in charge, and send reports on what’s happening.” Oh hold the fuck up, the little brunette gears up to tell him to fuck right off when he smirks, adding in. “But, I also _get_ reports from Ben-Hassrath agents all over Orlais. You sign me on, I’ll share them with your people.”

Honey trap. Goddamn. Do people not watch – well fuck. No. They don’t watch movies. Her arms cross, shifting her wait back onto her left foot.  “Let’s get this straight. You’re a spry – and you just…told me?”

“Whatever happened at that conclave thing, it’s bad. Someone needs to get that Breach closed.” Preaching to the choir buddy. “So, whatever I am, I’m on your side.” But are you? This is some double agent shit.

“You could have hidden it. That doesn’t answer why you just told – “

“Hidden that from something called the Inquisition? I’d’ve been tipped sooner or later. Better you hear it right from the go with me.”

On to problem number two. “What exactly would you be sending back to headquarters?”

“Enough to keep my superiors happy.” He’s smirking, looking as calm and controlled as a placid lake. Friendly as a mother fucker too. He makes her feel like she’s under a microscope. “Nothing that’ll compromise your operations.” Uuuh huh. “The Qunari want to know if they need to launch an invasion to stop the whole damn world from falling apart.”

“Jesus fuck.” The word slips out before she can think better of it. It’s Andraste here. Not Jesus. Fuck. He laughs at her. She doesn’t blame him – she’d laugh at her too.

“You let me send word of what you’re doing, it’ll put some minds at ease. That’s good for everyone.”

“No shit. What’s in these reports your offering up?”

“Enemy movements, suspicious activity, intriguing gossip. It’s a bit of everything. Alone they’re not worth much. But, if your spymaster is worth a damn, she’ll put’em to good use.”

Oh, goddamn it. “She?” Are you goddamn fucking kidding right now? Clearly someone isn’t doing their job somewhere.

And this big ass man just laughs. AGAIN. “I did a little research. Plus, I’ve always had a weakness for redheads.”  Her eyes close and she pinches her nose. Of course, he does. Of. Course.

“Fine. You’re in. But you’re putting every report in Leliana’s hands before it goes out or I’ll let her cut your balls off for don’t fuck with spymaster soup. I hear it’s a delicacy.”

That eye widens before a genuine grin plasters itself on his face. He claps a hand on her shoulder, and Jayla once again almost goes down like a rock. “Excellent! Krem! Tell the men to finish drinking on the road. The chargers just got hired.” His voice booms and Jayla wonders how he manages to be so loud. Must be all that diaphragm. She almost envies him. Almost. Not very much.

There’s some random banter between the Chief and his Lieutenant, but the Herald doesn’t pay attention. The pressure off, she needs to chew some elfroot and mint leaves, get some sleep and go the fuck home. She needs to snuggle her kids and have a night where everything makes sense again. The dark woman doesn’t notice that her stumbling steps toward her party are watched. Nor does she notice how he sees her grab at Solas for support.

The kid has some work to do. She’s strong, fast, got a helluva way with her daggers, but she doesn’t process the death at all afterward. She wallows, and it’s gonna get her killed. Honestly, he’s damned impressed she didn’t upchuck all over his boots. She looked like she might.

Part of him is worried about an Inquisition lead by a girl. She’s young, real young to be doing this. He can see it in the way she holds it together just long enough for him to know she’s boss, and letting go when her people – the people she trusts the most – are the only thing she sees. And that elf, the bald one. He’s been staring at her since she sat down with him. The Qunari would put money on it. The way he’s looking at her, curling around her without doing so. That’s a man in love. And her leaning in, hips angle just a touch toward him, her head too? Yeah. That might become a problem. The elf is older, and she’s probably impressionable – malleable. This could be a big problem.

“Wait up, boss. Might as well get used to whatever kind of accommodations you Inquisition types have. We’ll camp down with you and head on to Haven at first light.”  He watches her, the way she half falls over, the elf clutching at her and sending a look around them.

“Sure, the Iron Bull. Might as well get the unofficial welcome to the family over with.” Her voice is strained. She’s either going to freak out or faint. The Ben-Hassrath agent shakes his head sighing heavily. That invasion might not be a bad idea.


	23. They killed them.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull tests the waters, Jayla and Cassandra bond, Exposition

The heels of her hands are pressed harshly against her eyes. She wanted to go home. A week. That is what she told Tara, Ben, Eldhru, Tarasylah, Varnehn, Niven, Aeliana, Corrado, Carrie, Mallory, Delphine, Maël – they were going to cause havoc when she and Solas didn’t come home in the appropriate time frame. But Inquisition soldiers were missing. Gods damn it. Damn this world. Damn this godless, lawless place.

“ _Da’ara_. I know you wish to see the children. We can perhaps sleep early tonight, spend time with them together in the Fade. They will understand our absence.” Solas speaks to her quietly, pressing a bowl of porridge into her hands, there is rabbit, seared as always on top, a heavy sauce of some sort on it as well. She can smell it. Not bad as breakfasts go, but she wants to be home. Damn it.  

“I know. I know. I was just looking forward to baby cuddles.” She replies equally quietly, and the adoration on the elf’s face is just too much. That, that right there is gonna end bad. Real bad.

“Kids? You two have kids?” The booming voice of the Qunari almost tosses Jayla off her perch. As it is, she twists in her seat violently to look up at him. He has a frown on his lips, contemplative look in his eye. Her surprise transforms in to stubborn pride.

“Twelve, actually.” Let’s see how he chews on that.

It raises her spirits to see him look between her and Solas, focusing more on her and how small she was, how young she is before he shakes his head. “Bullshit, boss. No way you popped out twelve kids – no way you popped out twelve of _his_ kids.”

They hadn’t had sex last night, he’d been waiting for it to happen, what with the way Solas curled around the young woman. He was territorial that one. The Iron Bull had made conversation with them all, trying to draw out the Herald from her shell. Solas hadn’t taken very kindly to it. He’d dragged her off hunting just before the sunset, and Varric had stayed mum on the topic of their relationship. Cassandra wasn’t the type to talk about shit like that. She was a romantic, he could see that from the touch of a smile that hit her mouth every time she spotted the two mages with their heads together.

And honestly, the Boss was a mage. He hadn’t seen that one coming. She hid it better than Dalish ever did. He hadn’t felt magic from her once when she’s appeared on the field, but now, going over it in his head, she disappeared and reappeared to quickly half way across the beach for it to have been anything but magic. She’s skilled. He’d counted two kills where her blades had sunk in between ribs easy as butter. One she’d taken through the mouth and the last had been a slit throat if he had counted right. She’d hesitated every single time but the first kill too. He’d heard her crying, seen her quietly wander half way through the night in the direction of the privy trench and retch.

The Boss is a mess. Too young and too inexperienced for this. He barely had to put his training to use to see that. But, she didn’t back down. He can already see she’ll be staying here and not going back until things are settled. She’ll find her soldiers and ride hard for home. He’ll be damn surprised if she takes more than a week to rest before riding hard for the next crisis that needs her input. She radiates dedication.

“Healing magic is a fantastic thing, the Iron bull. What’s to say I haven’t had a child or twelve? And as for Solas being the father, that’s just rude. You know I slept with him last night.” Her chin is tilted defiantly and the elf has a look on his face that’s half pained and half wanting. Yeah. If she’d fucked him, given him kids, that look wouldn’t be on his face. He knew how Bas worked, been at this longer than this woman’s been alive he’d bet.

“If you two have actually been together I’ll proposition red in the middle of town.” The flat way he delivers his answer makes Jayla’s mouth pop open, shock on her face before she laughs at him.

“No way will you ask Leliana to sleep with you. That woman would chew you up and spit you out.” She shakes her head, turning in her seat, accepting the food Solas was holding for her and finding up a spoon from her pack to eat with. “God what I wouldn’t give to see that though. Her face would be amazing.” The kid gets this kind of day dream look on her face before she shovels the food into her mouth.

He can tell she’d rather something lighter to eat. She eats too fast and refuses a second helping. Which, most people wouldn’t, especially when they enjoy the sauce and the meat. But Jayla, she just smiles and says she’s full. She’s got muscle, and as a mage – she should be eating like it’s going out of style. Even Solas eats a second bowl. But not her. Hell, her Templar eats three bowls after making sure everyone else has had their share.

There are so many pieces to this woman that aren’t adding up. “So, can I call you Bull?”

“Sure, Boss.”

“Great! So, Bull, want to help us hunt some dicks who took my soldiers?” If she weren’t a liability, Bull could learn to love this girl. She’s got character.

 

Half way through the day, following the map and picking their way through rain slick terrain, Jayla regrets bringing Bull along. He’s talkative, and that makes her tense. She likes to talk to people. New people were great. But – he’d told her that he’s a spy. She’s from another goddamn world and if she trips up once, she’s toast. No way would that be accepted. No chance.

“Listen Ladies, I want to be home before Firesday. I’m running out of clean panties and no way am I attempting laundry out here. Pick up the pace!” Her voice is barely heard over the din of the rain, but it still gets chuckles from Varric and Iron Bull. The trudge up the hill, soaked, and only getting wetter as the rain and mist of the sea hits them from all sides.  The mage – Solas, he’s no slouch, keeping pace with the Seeker and Templar just behind their intrepid guide. His eyes are always on her though. It’s something the Iron Bull isn’t sure is a good thing.

Do they even realize how caught up in one another they are? How is it no one’s call them on this yet? He can’t make heads or tails of it. Not until the Boss goes invisible, literally disappears from the field and Solas goes on high alert.  They take maybe fifteen steps when she’s back, face grim.

“There’s at least three dozen people up at the cabin ahead. They’ve got dogs. Why is it always dogs? I swear to you they deserve better than the lives they get.” Sighing heavily, she looks at the assembled team.

“Eric with me and Varric, Solas, you’re with the tanks, flank and destroy.” It’s not the first time he’s been called something like that, though he has no idea what a tank is. Maybe it’s some kind of siege weapon. He likes the sound of that. Though, the Seeker isn’t really a tank. She’s strong as hell, anyone who can take down a dragon has to be, but she’s got nothing on him. Even so, they split up, the young human girl disappearing from sight again. The Templar and archer somehow know exactly where the girl is going to be, which Bull has to admit is impressive. Her magic? It’s scares the piss out of him, one second she’s all rogue, and then she flies out of her stealth whatever, flying and on fire above the group of mercenaries. She cooks two of them, before she makes hammers? Out of flame? It’s terrifying and fucking awesome at the same time.  She lands on an archer, one he was about to take out, nearly taking his head off and rolling out of the way while Bull finishes the job. He’s never seen anything like her. 

Her healing magic is bizarre, golden dust exploding away from her – burning the mercenaries but leaving him feeling refreshed. No mage he’s ever worked with does magic like this. He’s never seen a serebaas do it either.  But it’s the group that makes him really interested. The Templar doesn’t make a sound about the wild magic his mage does, and Solas flings spells that work with her weird ass fire rather than against it accidentally. Cassandra seems to know where to be, and Varric seems to just know where to aim.

They work damn well together, and maybe, if they could get her to use her magic more often, she wouldn’t be a liability. He’s positive that’s what will make her less worrisome. At least until the fight is over, and the smell of charred human gets to her. She pukes over the cliffside, kneeling like she’s in prayer with the elf keeping a hand on the back of her shirt the other keeping her hair pulled back. Bull hadn’t even noticed her lack of headgear.

“You people are something else.” He murmurs it, mostly because he doesn’t need anyone to question the comment. He’d been expecting much different tactics. Much different magic.  The Herald pulls herself together, and heads into the house, making a comment about it having to be important if they were willing to die for it.  Her yelp of distress has the Archer in the house in a second.

“Shit. They killed them.” The comment echoes from inside the rather dilapidated house. A pot goes flying, Bull should have made a bet on how long it would take for the girl to have a meltdown. The whistle ends a abruptly at the wall just off to the left of him. The crash barely makes him flinch but Eric and Solas look shaken.

“ _Da’asha_?”

As if summoned, the human herald comes out of the house like she’s being chased. Those dark eyes are red ringed, and she looks like she might just fall apart. He doesn’t know. He hasn’t been around long enough yet.  His arms cross and he watches her silently.

“Blades of Hessarian. They killed them and left a note detailing how we could challenge the leader.” The words are spit out and she starts back the way they came. Varric comes out of the hut with a list. Names for the scouts probably.

“Princess! Wait, we can’t let them just lay here –“

The fireball whips past them, Cassandra swearing a blue streak and this time Bull takes a few steps back as the hut goes up in flames. Turning his head, he watches the _steaming_ human walk back toward camp. Solas – it’s all in the eyes with this one, but whatever he’s feeling is gone. He heads after the dark human, and Varric scrambles after her as well. The Templar? Says a prayer for the dead before turning to follow the other four, the Iron Bull left to wonder what the hell he signed himself up for. They all catch up with her in no time.

Jayla’s short, short for a human, short for anyone really save a dwarf. No one’s speaking but they all want to. Well, her people all want to. He’s just figuring out this dynamic. She clearly leads them, but that’s a new thing. He can tell the way Varric seems to be hemming and hawing about saying something, the way Cassandra is to the Herald’s right but keeps overtaking her and faltering.

Yeah, little girl grew some wings recently. This could be bad. Real damn bad.

The Herald stalks into camp, heading straight for the requisitions officer. The paper is slapped on the table. “I need this made. I needed it made yesterday.” Her voice is rough and she’s tired. Jayla just wants it to be over. Her people have died, she knows that, abstractly she knew they must lose scouts and soldiers during skirmishes but – this?

“Yes Ma’am!” The officer thankfully just takes the paper and heads for the nearest raven. This would take a while. The Raven has to get to Haven, then Haven has to make the amulet and send it back. Her hands scrub against her face in a very tired manner.

“Looks like we’ll be here a while.” A hand lays on her shoulder, too small to be Solas’ so – “Seeker?”

“I know what it is you are feeling. Losing your men is never easy. The first time – it is always the worst. We will bring the men who did this to justice, Herald, do not punish yourself for this.” Hazel eyes that are usually so hard look at Jayla kindly. There is understanding there. Her shoulders fall a bit, and she hangs her head.

“I hate to say this – but I really hate this.” She whispers the words, so only Cassandra can hear them. “The death, the killing. Why does it have to be like this? Why can’t we rise above murdering each other wholesale or becoming what amounts to vigilantes just to be heard?”

Cassandra’s brows draw together and she draws the younger woman away from the table, away from the men and camp. Her hand is tight around Jayla’s bicep but not so much so as to cause pain. Neither speak until they have entered the copse of trees near camp.

“I understand that your world is not as ours is. You have told us many times. But, Herald, you are no longer on your world. This world – Thedas, we need you, and you are here.  The Maker sent you to us, and I cannot bring myself to coddle you. But, again, I know what pain you feel. I have felt it. This world of ours is in a violent time, we have not had peace since the last blight some eleven years ago. The mages, templars, we have long been on this path and it cannot be helped now the Divine has been murdered. All we can do, all we can ever do, is work to the best of our ability to make this world safe for the ones who cannot fight for themselves.”  Hazel eyes that are verging more on blue, search the younger woman’s face, take in the scars that have been left on her.

“You are learning, Jayla, what it is to be a warrior. It is not an easy path you have been put upon. But you are not alone, we will not let you fall or fail. That is the most I can promise you, but it is still a promise. So long as I have breath, you will have a Seeker by your side.”

Jayla’s eyes are wide, this is the most she’s heard Cassandra speak since the Inquisition formed. Cassandra is a woman who speaks when she needs to, pushes when she needs to. Socially – Cassandra is a touch stunted from what Jayla has seen, but this? Perhaps it is context. The woman is wise, and steadfast. A great warrior truth be told.

“Thank you, Cassandra. I – I can’t harden my heart.”

“And so you shouldn’t. The children you took in – while it was perhaps not the best idea – they need you to keep your heart soft for them. But out here – you must look death in the face and become its envoy lest it take you instead. You are hanging by a thread, do not think I can’t see it.”

The dark woman turns her face away and heat rises in her face. She’s been – bottling. All her emotions have been shoved into a corner. Yesterday – she’d managed to alleviate some of it. But, there was still a lot she hasn’t been able to excise. It’s gnawing at her heart and her sanity. “I don’t know how to –“

“We will spar, and you will put all the pain you feel, all the distress, and perhaps anger that will fester and grow to be hatred if left.”

Jayla blinks and looks at the warrior incredulously. “Spar. Now?”

“When better?” “Point. No weapons, just us and our fists?” The smile the other woman gives her is mildly terrifying.

 

“So, the Boss – she’s a little young, huh?” When the Seeker and Herald had left the camp, Varric and Solas had settled in to wait. There was no way of knowing if their talk would be drawn out or short. Hopefully it would ease the Herald’s troubled mind.

“Yeah, Tiny. She’s young.” Varric is wary, eyeing up the big warrior, wondering where this is going. Said warrior rolls his shoulders, looks completely at ease. So at ease it makes the hairs on the back of the archer’s neck stand on end.

“She’s not used to this right? Never seen a mage use daggers like she does. And that fireball today. She’s all kinds of all over the place.” He so nonchalant. It makes the Wolf’s hackles rise and Varric, seemingly sensing it, chuckles, verbally sliding in between them.

“Princess was a sheltered circle mage. Got stolen from her family by templars. She’s Rivaini, they’re peaceful y’know? More than the rest of us sorry bastards. And they actually like their mages. She was slated to be some kind of noble. You can see where they started to demark it – her ears are pierced multiple times, her belly has a piercing, too. A damn shame she got stolen away, or her social standing might have won us some real favor.”

“Wasn’t the Circle there mostly a training ground? I thought the women were trained to be seers.”

“Oh, they are. Jayla probably is a seer, but we can’t know for sure. Her magic is all sorts of fucked up after she fell out of the Breach. She’s got no memory of living in Dairsmuid, believe it or not. No love of the chantry though, and even less for Tevinter. Our Princess is an anomaly for sure – but she’s ours.”

Spinning the story was easy. It’s Varric’s calling in life, after all. But, the Iron Bull isn’t completely buying it. That eye is piercing and Varric is quietly worried they’re going to have an issue. Jayla’s status as an off-worlder can’t be known. People fear magic already, and Maker sent or not, if people knew she wasn’t Thedosian, there would be a witch hunt. She’d be the next Andraste and not in a good way.

“Master Tethras is correct. Jayla has the start of decoration meant for a highly-respected member of society.” Solas inserts himself smoothly into the conversation. “The Herald shows great aptitude for magic, and combat. Likely due to the way she escaped the annulment, one of few to do so. Her ability to tap into the fade suggests, that in time, she may be able to recover her memories and expand her magical ability. She may indeed become a Seer or diviner of some nature. We cannot be sure. The mark on her hand may have also taken those abilities from her.”

Solas backing Varric helps. He speaks so dryly and academically, it’s almost impossible to know that the man shares a tent with the Herald every night. That in their little town they were taking care of a gaggle of children together. It makes the Qunari narrow his eye, but he can’t prove they’re lying. Kont-aar might have some information on a powerful mage, but it’s unlikely. Saarebas weren’t stationed in Kont-aar as far as the Iron Bull was aware. There shouldn’t be anyway, as Kont-aar is a peaceful settlement, one of two they have in the South.

He opens his mouth to make a comment when a body comes crashing out of the copse of trees the Seeker and Herald had walked off into. It has them all jumping to their feet, and his great axe is already in hand when the figure pops up, a manic smile on her face, wiping blood from her lip. It’s damned hard to reconcile that the small, feral thing before them is their soft-hearted leader. More so when Cassandra barrels from the trees and Jayla _meets_ her head on.

The fighting styles are different, wildly so. Cassandra is blunt force and presses her advantage at all opportunities. Jayla is so clearly a rogue it’s weird. She dances, her feet never stop moving until they plant as she takes her shot. Because she’s smaller than Cassandra, she’s faster, and that is used to _her_ advantage. They aren’t pulling punches either. Jayla has a split lip, a cheek is swollen, Cassandra’s right eye doesn’t look great, and they’re breathing heavily. But there is a strange lightness to them. To the Boss especially.

He puts away his axe to watch them with interest. Not once does the Boss use magic, she takes her lumps and – well damn. She takes them and embraces the pain. He was sure that was something only Reavers did. But she uses it. He’s never seen a rogue deal with direct hits from a warrior before and keep on going. Yet here is the little human doing so with seeming relish.

They keep going, pummeling one another with Cassandra calling out corrections for the dark woman to make. It’s a fascinating spar, especially when the Boss stops playing and starts honestly trying to take the Seeker down. The women are vicious, and the Boss far more capable than Bull had thought. It ends with Jayla’s arm wrenched in such a way if she got up, she’d dislocate it. That’s the end of their spar, and both women pant heavily with smiles on their faces.

“Nice show ladies.” The rumbled praise has them looking at one another from their places kneeling in the dirt, catching their breath. Together they make unimpressed noises that have the dwarf cracking up.

“Shut up, Varric.” It’s said in stereo and the dwarf just laughs harder.

“Andraste’s tits, there are two Seekers. Did you hear that, Chuckles?”

The tension in the camp is gone. Apparently beating the piss out of one another was a thing here. Good to know some things are universal no matter the training or culture. The bald elf is chuckling, a short, stunted sounding thing, but it happens.

“Yes, Varric. I heard them. Now, if the ladies would come here so I may heal them, unless they’d like to use potions and deal with their bruises and split lips that way?”  His quiet chiding makes both Herald and Seeker snort. But, both women get to their feet and head toward him.

Cassandra is taken care of first, her black eye starting to swell and turn purple – prompting Solas to deal with that first. The rest of her bruises take seconds of work to remove and she walks away stretching enough her back makes a series of popping noises.

“I will retrieve our gear, and see what we can hunt for food. You – Scout, come with me, I will need the extra hands.”

There’s silence as Jayla stands just off to the side of the other mage. She shifts on her feet before seemingly making up her mind about something.  Jerking her head, she indicates they leave the camp. It piques the Camp’s interest, but no one says a thing as Solas stands and leaves with her.  If they think they’re being subtle, they aren’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So run down of the names and ages of the kiddos for you all. 
> 
> Ashalantarasylnin - 8, Anderfels, Hossberg Circle, Dalish born, female.  
> Erymben - 7, Ferelden, Dalish born, Denerim Alienage, male.  
> Niven - 7, Ferelden, Highever Alienage, male  
> Corrado - 6 Anderfels, Hossberg Circle, Tevinter parentage, male  
> Tarasylah - 5, Markham city elf, female  
> Delphine & Maël - 5 Orlais, White Spire Circle, female male - twins  
> Carrie - 4 Ferelden, South Reach, female  
> Eldhru - 3 Starkhaven circle city born, mage, female.  
> Varnehn - 3 Perendale Circle, Dalish born, male.
> 
> So I know Bull seems quite ...harsh right now, but he always struck me as likely being so in his head when first meeting the Herald. So I figure he'd be doubly so in the face of a 'Rivani' Herald that can't deal with death, wields magic and just doesn't conform to anything like she should. 
> 
> Thedosidan Days of the week courtesy of AutopsyTurvey and Zorazen here on AO3.


	24. Oh Herald.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fights, Kisses, Ignored Injuries, adorable children. Fluff. Happy Easter!

The Herald hits the ground, rolling and bouncing several times. Solas’ hands grip his staff to the point his knuckles are bloodless. Three days they waited for the amulet, and Jayla had put it on without a so much as a whisper of concern and trekked out into the downpour of the Storm Coast. She’d behind Cassandra and Rickson, sighting they needed a time out from ‘saving her ass all the time’. He wishes she’d have waited a day to give them that rest. Watching her struggle to get up, spitting blood into the dirt, her breath coming in short wheezing gasps that tell him a rib is broken or at the very least bruised.

Her armor is covered in mud and her own blood, a cut above her eye leaking profusely. Her hair is half fallen from its tie, but her daggers are in her hands. The giant brute of a human bears down on her, roaring his displeasure that she’d had the wherewithal to erect a barrier to keep the dogs from attacking.

The swings are wild, and Jayla weaves between them, making her own little cuts into the man’s meager armor along his arms. She hasn’t gotten the opportunity yet to get in close for a killing blow, nor has she been able to wear him down. Her pained yell as her arm cracks makes Solas suck in sharp breath. He doesn’t want to watch but keeps his eyes on Jayla as her arm hangs lip at her side, dagger in the mud. Her eyes are bleary with the pain, but he knows how she works. He’s seen her this pained before, knows the strange clarity that will come over her.

If the Creators were ever Gods he prays that the clarity will consume her soon and allow her to do what she must to survive this. A bolt of lightning crashes between the two combatants, Jayla calm, while the human looks bewildered. Solas can’t help but be relieved, though is face is placid as ever. She was done playing. Her magic always heralded the end of a fight, or perhaps the beginning of it.

She is charged at and moves quickly enough to avoid it, kicking his legs from under him. Getting him just above the hip with her dagger. But, tired as she is, Jayla can only scramble away and grab for her other weapon. Hers still lodged in his hip. The man is like a bear, roaring his fury and pushing himself up onto his feet.

Solas doesn’t realize he’s taken a step forward until a hand on his shoulder stills him. His teeth grind as he is forced to watch Jayla taken down again, the pommel of the animal’s weapon catching her in the Temple. She lays dazed in the mud, an eye swollen near shut, her broken arm caught beneath her making her skin grey out in pain. But, by some stroke of luck, her magic doesn’t fail her as her body is. She is dragged up onto her knees by her hair, and her good hand latches onto the human’s wrist.

She curses him in a language they don’t understand, and fire licks up her arm to his. It moves fast, faster than most conjured flames would, but Solas doesn’t care about that right now. All he cares is that Jayla is released, tossed away really, and another bolt of lightning comes down, connecting this time with the human. He drops, still ablaze in the downpour of rain. Her barrier flickers and falls, the Hessarians taking hold of the hounds, urging them back in their cages while Solas calmly goes to Shepard’s side.

“You fool woman. What were you thinking.” He catches her before she falls face first into the mud. Her good eye is glazed over, and her body radiates heat, attempting to compensate for the cold of the rain, blood rushing to injured places to clot and begin the healing process. Shifting her, cradling her against his chest, Solas starts with her most superficial injuries. He would not allow her to gain another scar, not while he could prevent it.

“Was pretty sure I had to do it mano-a-mano. But, I didn’t want to die in the mud. Guess I cheated.” Her words are slurred, teeth and lips coated thinly with her own blood, breath coming in sips as she leans against him. Varric stares down at the Herald, face white, mouth a thin line.

“Princess, you have got to do better. My book is going to be filled with near death experiences at this rate. So many no one will ever believe it.” He tries to joke but his eyes aren’t joking. He looks deadly serious and terrified. It makes the Herald turn her face away from him.

“Had to be me.”

“The fuck it did! You could have let Iron Bull wear the damned thing, or Solas! Hell, even me.” He growls the words, teeth clenched to keep his voice from raising. Solas places a hand over Jayla’s swollen eye and she winces as the magic begins to fix what had been injured. It wasn’t the most pleasant of sensations and that is how she knows Solas is upset with her.

“I’m the Herald, Varric. It’s my job to do this shit.”

“No – Jay, it’s not. Your job is to fix the veil rifts, to make people like you and survive this hell on Thedas.” Varric squats, his eyes on her while Solas’ magic washes over her in gentle waves of aquamarine.  “Kid, this is crazy. He could have killed you.”

“The bears in the Hinterlands could have too.” Her stubborn reply makes the dwarf swear, getting up and stalking toward the gate. If she wanted to get the shit kicked out of her on a regular basis fine. Clearly she wouldn’t listen to him anyway.

“My lady.” A stranger’s voice makes her good eye open, training on one of the Blades of Hessarian. “You’ve freed us from our last leader, our loyalty is yours.” His fist is thumped against his heart as he half bows to her.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” She groans loudly, hissing when Solas prods at the skin around her eye carefully. “I kill your leader and now I’m your leash holder? What logic makes that even work?”

“It is our way, my lady. Our lives are yours now.”

She looks helplessly at the Blades in the camp. All of them are saluting her, all of them. This is ridiculous. No, fuck ridiculous it’s downright goddamn insane.  Why were they giving their loyalty away like that? And don’t even try the line about ‘it’s our way’. Bullshit. Bull fucking shit.

“You’re all goddamn insane. Fine. Serve the Inquisition if that’s what all of your crazy asses want. I’m done here. I want to go home, I want to sleep in a real bed, and I would like –  _fuck a fucking mother fucker_!” Her rant is cut off when Bull sets her arm for Solas. Tears blur her vision and she shoves her face against her healer’s neck.  Growing bone is itchy, her arm feels strange after it’s proclaimed perfect. It’s not. It never will be again. That’s what happens with broken bones, they just never fit –

“Maker’s ass.” Varric swears as Jayla looks at her arm drunkenly muttering about it not being perfect anymore. How nothing is perfect after it’s broken. Her voice is so hollow that it’s frightening. He’s actually happy when her eyes roll back in her head and she goes out like a light. Solas hoists her into his arms, standing carefully and looking almost serene. Not all her injuries are healed, but they can see the glow of magic he keeps around her.

“We should get her back to the camp.  There are rifts we must take care of before we can leave. She won’t let them stay as is before returning to Haven.” He’s not resigned to staying in the area, but he is, apparently, resigned to the Herald’s antics. She’s ingrained them in herself now, there isn’t going to be much they can do about her running headlong into dangerous territory. They shouldn’t have pushed her in the Hinterlands.  They should have let her be.

“Mamae!” Jayla falters when she hears Delphine and Maël’s voices yell for her in concert. The little Orlesians mages and Eldhru had attached themselves to her and Solas for that matter, quite thoroughly. But still, being called that throws her. It doesn’t, however, stop her from scooping the two littles up into her arms when she appears at the edge of their dream. They must be taking a nap. That is the only possible reason for them to be asleep in the middle of the day. That she so easily found them, came to their dream – it’s not something that crosses the human woman’s mind to question or even think about.

She had seemingly decided to do the same after passing out. She sinks into a chair, because they are in the cabin at Haven, and cuddles the twins close. She doesn’t even need to prompt them, they launch directly into tales of the lessons the Enchanter was teaching them, about the letters they had learned, their numbers and figures, and how they could not become too scared or angry lest their magic get too big. The last makes her lips twitch into a frown, but she doesn’t comment. It makes sense, to  _caution_  the children about high emotions, but to outright tell them not to feel too deeply? She’ll have to ask Solas if that’s wise.  

Action nudges his snout against Maël’s dark baby fine hair. It curls in whips around his little ears and Jayla hopes it doesn’t go corkscrew curly after the first time it’s cut. If she ever lets it be cut.  Her greeting of the spirit is quiet as he curls around them.

“You take many risks, _ma’halla’falon_. You worry your friends.”

“It’s not that simple,” She protests softly and both children watch the wolf with awe. It’s Delphine who catapults herself out of Jayla’s arms and onto Action. She lays on his back, looking at him intently. Everyone is still. Action most of all won’t move, all six ruby eyes are focused on the little girl now on his back.

“ _Bonjour grand loup!”_ She chirps her greeting, a brilliant smile on her face. A collective breath is released and Action noses at the girl.

“Hello da’len.” If a wolf could smile, Jayla is sure one would be on his mouth right now. “Curious little thing, aren’t you? Are you not afraid of wolves and spirits?”

“ _Non_.” Her little curl topped head tilts, “should I be? You are not a bad wolf, are you?”

They are so innocent, the little ones that call his  _halla_  mother. He had not known what to make of it at first. Solas had been, pleased, to know Jayla had saved the children’s lives. He was – less pleased when the children became theirs. Instinct drove him, his affection for the Herald sealed it. The children meant he could not show his affection for Jayla properly, he could not plan and work silently like he had been even with the Herald, their Herald, in their home.

Jayla had given Solas space. These littles ones did not, and nor should they. They needed guidance. Stability, care. Action is still surprised they fell into such a roll so willingly. It had taken all off an hour when the dark woman before him had gone to ascertain why the children had been left in the cold before acceptance set in. And in the first week, the children became, his, hers, **theirs**.

“No, I am not a bad wolf.” The answer is easy, and while many would state otherwise, Action felt his words to be true. He was not a bad wolf, nor a bad spirit. His goals had been extreme, but he had saved the People from destruction. Their fate was not as great as he had hoped, but at least the Elves were still walking Thedas. The mistake could be rectified.

“Then I am not afraid. Mamae is not afraid of you either.”

“She’s right, I’m not.” The smile on Jayla’s face, her head leaning on that of the smaller twin makes a warm feeling flow through the spirit. So odd. He has never felt it before. “ _Mea ala kaikamahine,_ did you know Action saved my life once?”

Big clear amber eyes look at the wolf and back to the girl’s adopted mother. “What do you mean?”

He quite happily launches into a very edited version of the first time he’d met Jayla in a dream. They sit like that for hours, after the first story, he tells another, and another, of times when he had been young. One story from the days when they were Purpose and Action, long before Purpose became Pride and took a body.

 

They had thought from the Storm Coast they would ride straight for Haven. It would be quick, and the reprieve would be much needed. But, it is not to be. As they make it to the forward camp that Harding had established, a Raven missive waited for them. The Grey Wardens were disappearing, and Leliana’s people had only been able to locate one. Warden Constable Blackwall. He was rumored to be in the Hinterlands, quite near one of the now well established camps.

With a quiet, and rather dignified resignation, Jayla informs the now huge party. “All right, we’ve got another mission. Iron Bull, you’re with me. Varric, Cassandra, head to Haven with the Bull’s Chargers. Give Leliana a good report of Val Royeaux. We should be a few days behind you – hopefully at the most.”

It’s the first time that Jayla has willingly let Cassandra and Varric leave the party. She felt most comfortable with them, Cassandra especially, but Jayla knows she cannot run those closest to her down. Better they rest a while. Varric looks like he might protest, but a sharp look from Cassandra keeps him quiet. Mutinously glaring, but quiet. They leave within an hour of sunrise, the foursome leaving not far behind them. They part ways at the Imperial Highway, with the group of four going up onto it, the rogue and Seeker around toward the mountains.

“So. The Templar yours, Boss?”

“Eric Rickson of the Templar Order is a part of my …hm. He works with me, yes. Is he mine? No. I don’t believe in owning people. It’s a disgusting practice.”

Her eyes slide to him though she keeps sitting properly in her saddle. She’s ramrod straight, but moves well. Clearly, she’s only ridden a few times. The Iron Bull is fascinated with her. Nothing makes any kind of sense. Baring of a noble, but only has three piercings, no tattoos. Her magic is wild, but she was raised in a circle. Lived and slept beside a man that she wasn’t romantically connected with. Something Elves and Humans typically aren’t prone to. Especially with kids in the mix. But, the want to be romantically entangled. He doesn’t get that. They’re clearly hot for one another.

“Well, that rules out the Tevinter heritage then. Figured that was why you kept the elf –“

“He. Has. A. Name.” Her words are bitten into, bitten off as rage bubbles to the surface of her calm exterior. Yeah. She’s absolutely gaga for the damn elf. Too bad, she’s probably wild in the sack. She’s certainly wild in all the other ways that count.

“Got it, Boss. So. Fell out of rift?”

“I hear it was a fantastic sight.”

“Heard you were basically naked.”

“Hence, the fantastic sight.” Her lips curl into a smirk and he guffaws. Yeah, he likes her. She’s got personality, flare, pizzazz. She’d fit in with his motley crew just fine. Or they’d fit in with her. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be so bad. After she took that beating a few days ago, Bull has a lot of respect for her. She tried to take that dick down without her magic. Just so none of them would get injured. Sweet sentiment. Dumb, but sweet. Got a good heart.

“Ah, it’s almost like we’re back home.” Her sarcasm isn’t missed, both Eric and Solas making some noise indicating amusement. She turns in her seat, distracted enough to not be afraid. “Like you two chuckle heads wouldn’t love to see the back of the Hinterlands for more than a month.”

They shake their heads, amusement clear in their faces, however fleeting. Bull narrows in on Eric. The kid doesn’t talk much. Tended to mostly speak to the core four, and only a night. “Hey, Rickson, right? What’s your story kid. How’d you end up in league with our illustrious leader?” The groan it garners from Jayla is more than enough incentive for Bull to not let the question go.

 

“Goddamn it, this - this is why we can’t have nice things!” She can see a group of men with the apparent Warden, and some shifty ass looking people in the trees. Dismounting the horse, she leaves it at the bottom of the hill, tied hastily to a low hanging branch, trotting up the hill.

“Blackwall? Warden Blackwall?”

She barely makes it to the line of shaking farm hands and teens who had no business wielding shields and axes, when the Warden apparent turns to her. They aren’t even properly armored for pity’s sake! What absolute insanity is happening here?

“You’re not –“ He looks. Jayla doesn’t even know where to start. Aggressive is as good a place as any. His face makes her lean away as he charges toward her, his face set in a scowl. The man is a wall of person. Which seems to be the trend with warriors. “How do you know my name? Who sent –“

She barely hears the arrow being loosed, and can’t tell the direction it’s coming from, throwing up a barrier on instinct alone. The Warrior, aware as he is, raises his shield. The arrow makes a dull sound as it embeds in the wood. It’s at the height of her head. That revelation makes her blanch. It’s enough for the Warden to refocus. The bandits or whomever, have begun their attack.

“That’s it, help or get out. We’re dealing with these idiots first!” She feels her brows jump up her forehead. This is seriously why no one can have nice things. Where were the police, the court systems? Maybe she should write a book, invent a far-off content no one can find and detail Earth’s great advancements. It could only help things here.

Sighing Jayla dives into the fray, blades singing. Mostly she simply defends the apparent conscripts, she won’t take a life today. How many has she already taken? Eric and Bull dive into the fray as they arrive, and the familiar feeling of Solas’ magic settles over her. She hadn’t realized her barrier had fallen. She needs to work on that.

It is a quick fight in truth, the bandits weren’t – it was different somehow. The bandits she’s dealt with so far were vicious, came at her unrelentingly.  Her side throbs, enough her blood pounds in her ears as the battle comes to an end. These ones – they had hesitated. It sits uneasy in her stomach, so much so as she looks down at the bodies strewn by the lake she misses the Warden letting his conscripts leave. In fact, the entire meeting is a haze for the Herald. She knows she spoke with the man. Knows her words were sharp when it was clear nothing would be gained from talking to him, and knows he decided to sign on with her people.

But she has no idea how it came about. She doesn’t even know how she got back to Haven. But little hands and faces greet her when she wakes. “She’s ‘wake! Get Papae!” Eldhru’s shrill voice makes the young woman flinch, even as her arms move sluggishly to embrace the kiddo. The sound of small feet scampering away dimly registers. The warmth of Ellie’s skin on hers makes her think this is not a dream. That she is home – but she should be in the Hinterlands.

“Ah, thank you Corrado, Niven. Go play with the others, I need to check on – “ he falters unsure what title to give her before settling on – “ the Herald’s wound” His voice is soft but the last words are rather pointed. The sounds of scampering come again, but Jayla is too tired to roll or look over her shoulder at the door. The bed dips, and a chilled hand pushes back her hair.

“You,  _da’asha_ , are a lucky woman. However, I do not think Rickson and Varric will be speaking to you in the near future.” His eyes are so sad, it makes panic lance through her heart and she shifts to try and sit up with Ellie still in her arms. The panic is over ridden by fire burning through her side.

Curses in English flow from her mouth and a few in her father’s tongue. Gentle hands extract a whimpering child from her arms, the blankets are eased away from her, tunic shifted up until it is bunched just below her breast band and those cold hands settle where the fire throbs. It hurts, like a deep tissue bruise and the finest of cuts all at once.

“Peace, Jayla. Rest.” Those sad eyes swim into focus again, but there is something in his voice that has her shrinking away. It takes a few minutes for her brain to work and provide her with the proper word. Angry. Solas is angry.

“Solas – what?” Her throat feels like sand got dumped in it. Chapped lips pull into a frown and she swallows several times to try to wet it. Wordlessly a glass of water is pressed against her lips, a hand threading through her hair, tipping her up so she wouldn’t choke.

“The Blade leader, he managed to break your ribs. I thought I had found all the pieces, put them all back into place. It cut things in you, caused blood to well and go sick in you. I don't know how you weren't in pain. You collapsed on Warden Blackwall. Do you remember?”

She takes several greedy swallows of cool liquid, eyes closing while she listens. Remember? No, she didn’t. Pain - he should be well aware of just how much discomfort Jayla has inflicted on herself in the name of love. Why would he? This is duty. Nothing can hinder that.“No. I’m fine now, right?” She sounds like she’s smoked every day of her life, twenty packs a day. It isn’t the most pleasant of sounds.

“You are recovering. The dead blood was drained yesterday, we’ve sealed the sight, but – it will take time. You are too often without rest, driving your body and soul hard. Taking risks you needn’t. It has left you – unprotected from illness. I worry this will give such things a chance to plan themselves in you.”

Great. That sounded a lot like he was putting her rest leave. Possibly bed rest. Her trainers were going to murder her.  Her hand lifts and weakly bats away the cup and Solas’ hand. “Solas, I can’t just lay –“

Gentle hands catch her shoulders and urge her back against the pillows. He was using puppy eyes on her, sad, shining in the light, concern and care lining his face. One of his hands combs through her hair and Jayla can’t help but lean into it. When had she gotten so touch starved? Was it just Solas that made her feel this way or would hugs and cuddling from the little take away that ache to be near someone?

“Jayla, please. I –  _we_  need you to be healthy. You push too hard. We spent months in the Hinterlands, two weeks here, and now three weeks in the field again recruiting people, pulling yourself taught challenging men three times your size to duels to the death and closing rifts. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the giant, either. “He massages her scalp as he speaks, lulling her into a putty like state.

“It was near a rift.” She protests softly, eyes lidding as she looks up at him, refusing to not look him in the eye when they talk.

“We could have left it until the giant left the area. To think you didn’t know how to fight properly not so long ago. Now you regularly give me heart attacks diving into the heat of it, not using your magic half as often as you should.” His other hand comes to cup her cheek, thumb moving against the apple of her cheek.

Usually it’s Varric scolding her for being reckless. Solas was typically mum on the topic, only demanding she let him heal her, or blustering about her magic. This – is not a conversation they’ve had before. It’s hard to focus with him so close, looking at her so intently, his hand in her hair and the other on her face. Her feverish hand presses against the one on her cheek, watching the way his eyes shift,  _surprisehappysadneed_   **blank**  shifting on his face. They’re a pair. She’s not. She isn’t blind. They both crawled into shared bed and bedrolls. They had both kissed one another like they were dying.

“Solas.”

A single murmur of his name is enough to break him now. Or perhaps it is just this woman who wields this weakness against him. He has yet to banish their kiss in Val Royeaux or the ones on the Storm Coast from memory. It was so rash to have done that. But now that he has…

It’s nothing to lean down and brush his lips against hers. When she’d passed out, after standing and talking to Blackwall in a daze, his heart had half ripped itself from his chest. He’d thought all sorts of things as she crumpled like a paper doll. Poison, a deep wound to vital organs. Some spirits damned disease from her home world come to ravage her here. The black bruise on her side, the side that had been oddly distended. He’s always been prone to worry for his people, but never has he felt it this intensely and this often for a single person.

“Papae kiss Mamae!” Eldhru’s screeched declaration has him drawing away from the chaste kiss, laughter and exasperation flooding him. The child has the worst timing. Or perhaps the best, as he had completely forgotten the da’len’s presence. Jayla’s teeth dig into her lip, as she reaches out a hand for Eldhru.

They haven’t spoken on the topic of the littlest children taking to calling them mother and father. He doesn’t know how to broach that subject. He isn’t sure he wants to. But. He sighs, leaning to press a kiss to the tow-headed child’s forehead. Jayla had found perhaps the surest way of tethering him to this world. Twelve little souls that needed him, that accepted him. He can’t imagine bring the veil down on their heads. He knows he must. He knows it in the depths of his split shared soul. The Veil was wrong, and this world was lacking so much. But to risk them. To risk  _her_. And yet their lives are so fleeting. He will leave them one way or another. Be it to time or fire, a fact he will ever be aware of.

“Papae kiss Mamae! Kiss! Kiss!” the little girl presses a hand to his cheek, her feeble arms pushing him to face Jayla again. She’s laughing, and has more color in her face then she has in days.

“ _Ma nuvenin, da’ean. Ma nuvenin_.” This time, Jayla tilts her mouth up to meet his. It’s sweet, soft, and over far too soon, but the little song bird is so happy she squeals and claps her hands breaking them apart. He cannot be upset in the face of such innocent joy.

His kisses make her feel like she’s burning. They don’t talk about it. She’s. it’s wrong to pull him in like this. To want him like this when they are always in danger. To build a family around him, a unit that needs him, needs her, needs them together. She worries, so much now. The children could get hurt while they’re away. The children will not understand that she and Solas aren’t properly together.

And him kissing her so willingly when Eldhru demands it. Where had her will gone? They’d been doing so well until Val Royeaux, so well. His lips are soft, cool against her fevered ones. She thinks back to their walk.

 

She’d meant to apologize for days prior when she had challenged the Blades leader. It was reckless. But – she saw something that needed to be done and she did it. Still, he has been so quiet. Jayla meant to let him rail at her, to get his feelings out in the open between them.

She hadn’t meant for silence to fall over them as they walk along the deserted beach. She meant to grab his hand and pull him to a stop in a well-lit area beside one of the beached and broken boats. But her fingers had tangled with his instead, and when he turned to her, questioning, eyes searching in moonlight, her breath had caught in her throat.

It has never been a question of her attraction to him. Solas is – he’s magnetic. Intelligent, a wealth of knowledge he is all too happy to share, and gorgeous. His freckles are prominent in the moonlight, just like his eyes. Eyes that glow. He’s not so pale as he had been when they first started travelling. He’s got a warm glow to him now. It had taken all of a moment for her to be lost in the study of him.

If anyone asked her, Jayla wouldn’t be able to say what drove her to tug him forward shyly, to press a hand against his chest and lift up onto her toes. Her head had tilted back just enough for her request to be made clear, and she paused far enough away it had to be Solas’ choice to bridge the gap. The intensity with which he had startled her. She’d assumed the kiss in Val Royeaux was – pent up frustrations. Perhaps it was. Maybe they were still running high off that.

Either way, Jayla is a happy victim as Solas leads their kiss. It’s a hard kiss – but he doesn’t bruise her lips. His is just insistent in his passion. He parts from her too many times, but always comes back for more, a little farther than last time, a little more confident in how best to get her to make some embarrassing noise into the kiss.  He tastes of mint leaves and something cool, almost cucumber but too far removed for it to be that.

Solas had picked the small woman up, pressing her against a crumbling boat bow. Jayla will never admit it- but she loves Solas’ shows of strength. She likes that he can just move her if he wants to – needs to. He’d mouthed at her neck, fingers digging into her hips when she gasped and murmured encouragingly. He’d stopped because he settled a hand against what the Herald at the time assumed had been a bruise. It had made her flinch away from him, hissing a low sound of hurt. And just like that, Solas was replaced by protector who carefully set her down on her feet, lips swollen, heat coiling in her belly to fish a weak healing potion out of his belt pocket.

 

Honestly Jayla isn't sure what kiss has been her favorite yet. Frantic, leisurely and intense, or gentle and sweet. Maybe she should kiss him again for a tie breaker...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solas calls Eldhru - little bird(da'aen)  
> Jayla calls Delphine - Sweet girl (mea ala kaikamahine)  
> Action refers to Jayla as his halla friend ( ma'halla'falon)  
> da'asha is of course small woman  
> da'ara is small desire (cobbled together from da being small and the suffix ara off of vhenan'ara)  
> Ma nuvenin - as you wish  
> Bonjour grand loup - hello big wolf
> 
> That indomitable will seems to be wavering... And Eldhru is their best enabler.
> 
> Next up - Plans for a little Vacation.


	25. With the Best of Intentions

It took several days for Jayla to get Solas to let her out of bed. Sadly, it wasn’t because he was in there with her. A fact she still sighs over even as she buys provisions from the new market stall just outside Haven’s gates, not that far from the start of the training field and tent city. Belle had been convinced to open the stall, apparently. Jayla doesn’t know a damn thing about it, however, she’s thankful. The ability to buy fruits and vegetables was beyond comforting. Living on a diet of harsh oats and protein hadn’t done much for her health, she’s sure of it.  To have the acid from the citrus and vegetables, the fiber, the vitamins – it’s a small and much appreciated blessing.  Her backset is full, and she’s out a few sovereigns from her enthusiasm, but with a little salt, a couple minutes of boiling and some well-made pottery paired with a little bit of magic – they’d have these well through the warm months and into the winter. Better to start now than be caught unaware when the heavy snows hit.

“Herald.” The greetings are something she’s still getting used to. No one seems to be able to call her by name. Nor will they use her last name. It’s always Herald, or My lady. At least she more used to flashing a smile and nodding her head at people. No one’s asked her to kiss or bless a baby so – she’s okay for now. She’s heading for the chantry when she hears it.

“That’s her? The Knife-Ear lover?” Her jaw clenches and feigning the need to think, pawing through her basket like she needs or forgot something, she listens.

“Yeah. Got twelve little bastards staying in her house. Saw her and the mage knife ear bring them to the stables ‘bout a month ago.”

“So, she fucks one too? When she could have any human, she wanted?” “You ain’t seen ‘em? It’s obvious, can’t keep their hands to themselves. Some scouts say they even share a tent on the road. It’s wrong, that is. She’s tainting the Maker’s grace.” The disgust in the speaker’s tone makes bile rise in her throat. Gods she didn’t think – nothing about what she’d learned had said the prejudice was this bad.  Swallowing, she lifts her head, sighing to herself, murmuring for show.

“I forgot to ask after sugar and flour.” She’s making pie tonight. Or maybe a fruit filled cake. It was worth the loss of sovereigns.  Turning on her heel, she heads back to Belle’s stall. Her head is ringing with the words she overheard. Attitudes like that are dangerous. It wasn’t just her that could be targeted, there are thirteen other people they could hurt to get to her. Swallowing harshly, the Herald makes it to the stall in moments. Her transaction is subdued, leaving the Orlesian woman questioning what had just happened in the space of five minutes.

 

“Jayla.” Solas’ voice greets her before she even gets near their cabin. Her head snaps up, a weak smile pulling at her lips.

“Solas. Do I dare ask where our ducklings are?” There’s less enthusiasm and more worry in her tone, but she can’t damn well control it.  She’s paranoid now, those kids, they’re important. All the children are, of course, but those ones, their ducklings, they're _hers_.

“The smallest four are napping. Delphine, Mael, Tara and Corrado are at their magic lessons. Ben, Niven, Mallory, and Sylah are with Lady Montilyet for their lessons under her watchful eye.” He answers without so much as a pause, a fond smile on his face. It’s small, fleeting, but it’s there. Jayla has come to accept Solas not wearing his heart on his sleeve.  She also knows she pushes him outside his comfort zone with how often she evokes displays from him. It’s – just another thing they both know and never talk about. Like the increased frequency of them kissing. Gods they need to deal with whatever the hell it is they’re doing.

“Good. Is Irina with the smallest?” She has to make sure. Something in her face must give that away, because Solas’ brows pull together, eyes losing their jovial quality.

“Of course. _Da’ara,_ what is wrong?” His hands fold behind his back, head tilting in a lupine way, eyes narrowing.

“Just – let’s go home. I’ll talk to you about it there.” Shifting her basket, she thrusts her chin in the direction of home. As far as she’s aware, most people aren’t aware of where exactly she and the children live. Haven might be small, but it isn’t _that_ small. Not with more and more people coming by the day. The place has tripled in size in the span of several months. No telling what several more would do.

He looks almost like he might object, but her jaw sets and that bald head of his dips in acceptance. Sometimes it still shocks her how often Solas allows her to take the lead in things. He is the senior mage, the older person in their, their arrangement. He only seems to take the reins when she is incapacitated in some manner, and that is only in their private, ( _sort_ of private, let’s be really real about Jayla’s lack of privacy as Herald), lives.

Stepping around him, Jayla puts a carefree smile on her face and leads him home. The whole time, even as they talk about the weather, about the produce Bella carries, her plans for it, her eyes move between the faces of the town. How many of these people were upset by her relationship with Solas? How many would lash out at the children given half a chance? These are the people she’s working to save from the damned hole in the sky. The people who ‘revere’ her for being God-touched.

Sometimes this place is such bullshit Jayla wonders why she decided to help at all. When they near the back of the town, their conversation is cut short. There is a mob forming. Formed, really, in front of the Chantry doors. Cullen’s armor glints in the sunlight and Jayla’s brows pull in worry. This could be very bad. The basket slips of her arm, into her hand which she holds out to Solas.

“Take this home, please.”

“Jayla – “

“ _O hilo_ , please, take the basket home. I’ll be there in a few minutes. This doesn’t look good. I don’t. Just go to the house, please.” Her eyes pin him in place. His own widen marginally, brows raising before his usual expression takes hold. The basket exchanges hands, and Solas disappears into the crowd.

Jayla marches through the gathered people, pushing her way to the front. What she finds is rather upsetting. Templars in their armor facing off with mages in their robes.

“Your kind killed the Most Holy!” The man nearest her sneers the accusation, darting forward across the divide at one of the mages. She’s about to dive into the center of the divide when an older mage steps forward. His arm is out to stay the other mages from advancing.

“Lies. Your king let her die!”

That was enough. This would only end in tears. Jayla darts forward as planned, staring down each man, before turning to face the crowd. To her surprise, Roderick is there, he looks – pleased with himself.

“Stop this!” Her voice whips in the cool spring air. “The blame cannot be placed on a faction of people. You should all be ashamed of yourselves for letting grief and fear rule you! Is this what the Divine would have wanted? For us to be at each other’s throats into eternity?!”

One of the Templars takes a step forward and a presence stations itself at her back. “She’s right. We are no longer Templar and Circle Mages. All of us are of the Inquisition, we are all of us allies.”

Cullen’s tenor shocks the shit out of Jayla. The black woman can’t help the way her head whips to the side and up. He stands beside her as if they have always been steadfast allies. For now – she won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

“But, Knight-Captain.” The first templar is practically pouting, looking lost and a touch confused.

“He is no longer a Knight-Captain of your Order. He is the Commander of the Inquisition. You are a part of the Inquisition’s forces. Former Templars, former chained Mages, we are in this together. It is our job to bring an end to the insidious magic that placed the Breach above our heads, and our job to bring the Divine’s true murderers to light. Stop this childishness. We are stronger together than we are fractured.” Again, Jayla speaks, hoping that her words are weighted enough to give the gathered crowd pause.

“Oh. Are we stronger together? What exactly does being a part of the Inquisition mean, exactly?” Here he comes. Jayla draws herself up to as tall as she can make herself. Her hands tangle behind her back as Roderick comes forward.

“Back already, Chancellor?” Cullen sounds – tired, irritated. For once they are on the same page. “Haven’t you done enough?”

The bureaucrat speaks as if chiding a toddler. “I am curious, Commander, how your Inquisition plans to restore order as you’ve promised.” There is something in the man’s face that has Jayla’s hackles rising. He is addressing the crowd. Not truly speaking to her or the Commander. This is his fault.

Holding an arm out where Cullen can see it, Jayla looks at the gathered crowd. “Here is a perfect example of undermining ourselves. Our dear Chancellor brings you here to prove the Advisors, your _leaders_ do not know what they are doing.” Her eyes settle on the little man, he may have been friend to the Divine, but this behavior is appalling.

“Chancellor Roderick would have us at one another’s throats. He would make us weak, so our enemies may thwart our cause. We all of us, have roles to play in bringing peace back to Thedas. Already the Hinterlands is free of fighting! Already our troops there keep the common man safe, something your Nobles have tried and failed to do. There are no more rifts in the Hinterlands – and none along the Storm Coast! The greatest minds in Thedas, the greatest warriors in Thedas come here to help us put things right. We are all here for this purpose, we are all here in honor of those who lost their lives to the cataclysm that took our Beloved Most Holy from us. Do not let insidious whispers break your faith. Do not let a petty little man, who is blinded by grief, and lashing out in error make you stray from our path. Ours is a righteous path, ours is the right path!”

Silence has fallen when she stops speaking. Her eyes haven’t left the Chancellor, who looks at her agape. His face is ruddy from cold and embarrassment, his jaw tendons flexing with irritation no doubt. Jayla stares at him a moment longer before looking at the crowd again.

“You have wasted precious daylight on an argument we have had many times. Go back to your training, your jobs, your families. Trust that we have a plan, trust that your faith will not be betrayed.”

A soft chorus of ‘yes my lady’ and ‘as you say your worship’ rises around her and people begin to leave. It takes mere minutes before it is only she, Cullen and Roderick before the Chantry. Her arm drops then, and her arms cross over her chest.

“You are a disgrace to the cloth. You dishonor the Divine’s memory.” Now having said her peace, she turns, pausing to look up at Cullen.

“Thank you, Commander, for supporting me.”

“My lady.” He looks – surprised, a little wary, and for that she doesn’t blame him. They haven’t once spoken yet and not nearly come to blows or gravely insulted one another. This is – strange.

The Herald walks away before things become awkward, and that in turn, undermines the Commander’s new moral high ground as he is left to face down the Chancellor. She doubles around the requisition tents before darting into the trees that hide her house, her steps are quiet and sure, her eyes moving among the trees, looking in the snow for foot prints that aren’t hers or Solas’. The worry sitting in her breast isn’t easily shaken. Even when she walk into the house and finds Solas with Carrie, Varnehn, Eldhru, and Aeliana at the table can she shake the worry.

But, to keep the kids from picking up on it, she presses kisses to crazy sleep haired heads and shoos them off to play in the great room. She waits until they are out of earshot to start deconstructing her basket of perishables.

“ _Da’ara_. What has you so – so unlike yourself.”  Solas stands and begins to help her, catching on to her intensions when he notes the early spring vegetables and some of the winter ones.

“One day, _Hilo_ you will have to tell me what all these pet names mean.” She is stalling, but his hands on her wrists have her sighing, shoulders slumping and dark eyes meeting clear blue ones. “I overheard some people today. One pointed me out to the other, they called me Knife-ear lover, and mentioned the kids.” Her voice is soft and laden with worry.

“I naively thought people would just accept it, our partnership, our friendship. And the kids, well, they have no choice but to accept them. They will not be removed from my care come hell or high waters. But, they sounded disgusted. It makes me worry. I want to tell Leliana.” His hands tighten around her wrists for a moment before he hastily lets her go. Turning from her, Jayla holds her breath.

They sling slurs at even their holy prophets. Solas knows better, that Jayla is simply a woman in the wrong place at the wrong time, but to the humans, to any who believe in the Maker and his Bride, Jayla is a prophetess. That they, whoever these people are, would speak of her thusly in broad daylight, in the town the Inquisition is based in..

He knew that the presence of the children and himself at Jayla’s side, in direct contact with the Herald at nearly all times, would cause issue. What he had not counted on was for it to become an issue so quickly. Then again, Solas hadn’t counted on Jayla taking it upon herself to deal with ages of racism while dealing with the Divine’s murder and the Breach. The threat to her is unacceptable, the threat to their little brood of children is also unacceptable.

He takes several deep breaths before turning back to Jayla, a storm in his eyes. She looks distressed, and he reaches out with his mana to comfort her. The answering ‘hug’ almost staggers him from his place standing. “We will tell Leliana. But, as we have not put preservation spells on your purchases, it will have to wait a moment or two.”

“Oh but I was –“

“Just a moment or two. It will not harm the food, nor your intent in preparing it for us to simply keep the air and bugs from it while we go to the chantry. Irina is still here, upstairs actually gathering the Children’s linens. I will ask her to stay before going to launder them.” He moves as he speaks, heading to the great room where the stairs for their children’s bedrooms are located. They had taken the room downstairs, the one that butted up against the kitchen. This way at least, if something were to happen, if someone were to attempt to break in, the children would not be the first things in such a person’s sights.

Jayla goes back to unpacking the food. In no time, she hears the stairs creak in such a manner that indicates an adult moving down them. Solas appears seconds later, silent as he always seemingly is, and standing behind her. She says standing, but, well. His chest presses against her back, the heat of him making her breath still. This is not a normal occurrence.

His hands slide over her arms, gentle enough her skin rises in gooseflesh, and his voice is right in her ear. “No, I believe this is a new lesson for you. An important one as well. Your hands, _da’ara.”_ She gives them to him without a fuss. As if she could, the man is – she will – they are a train wreck waiting to happen. She knows it. She’s _known_.

But damn if she can help herself when it comes to him. His fingers tangle with hers, slowly, carefully, enough she squirms a little bit. Why is she so hypersensitive around him now? He’s pleased, apparently, if the rumbling sound in his chest is a hint or clue.

“Now, to preserve food it goes a little something like so –“ His magic flows over her skin and Jayla loses her train of thought. That – that is new. She’s not sure if she likes it.

 

“You are sure that is what you heard, Herald?” Leliana’s lips are thin, and Jayla bites her cheek to keep from exploding. Was she sure? Of course, she was goddamn sure. But, instead of exploding, Jayla takes a breath and levels her gaze on Leliana’s.

“I am. I realize that Elves are looked at as second class citizens, but to speak about my private life as if I’m not allowed to be with someone is – upsetting. More the implication that it was something to be corrected. This is something I won’t let fester, Leliana. Something we can’t afford to have become something. Not when the little ones are involved.” Her hands fist against her hips.

“Please, just – keep an ear to the ground for me?”

The redheaded woman tilts her head, eyes watching the Herald and Solas. She hadn’t realized their relationship had become a relationship. To her, it looked like two people in very deep denial. Even with the children around, they seemed to have a polite, professional distance between them. But not, with Solas standing to the right and just behind Jayla, that seems to have changed.

“I will have agents looking out for your family. No child will be harmed here.” Especially not the ones who the Herald calls her own. The fallout from the potential loss of one or all of them is simply too great to risk. Her arms cross, one under her bosom, the other elbow setting atop it, her hand pressing against her chin. To ferret out dissenters amongst the Inquisition’s people would have to be handled delicately handled.

“Perhaps, your Worship, you might like to take the children to Rivain. It would do them good to see your homeland, and perhaps you could – reconnect with your family, finish your rights into nobility.”

The younger woman’s head tilts at Leliana’s suggestion. Rivanese people denoted rank with piercings and tattoos – didn’t they? Jayla can’t deny that she’s wanted to get several in her life, traditional tattoos like her mother and father had sported. Her father with a traditional geometric design on his leg, moving into the family design and many others that curled up their way around his back and chest. Never where he could be written up for the, but he had them. The one she remembered best was the design across his chest, the pigeons and birds, the coconut, the shark teeth and turtle, the fish all swirled together with thick black lines.

 Her mother had sported three of import to her; the tiki in a sun of shark teeth on the back of her neck, a _honu_ on her lower belly, between the rise of her hip bones, surrounded by wave patterns with the traditional geometric pattern associated with warriors inside it arching over her hips to curl around her buttocks and down her legs. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to take their tattoos for herself, to honor them, remember them. It didn’t feel like she was ever going to go home, and Solas had basically confirmed it.

“Yes. Yes, I should go get my tattoos done, and a few more piercings can’t hurt.” Her agreement is said with more conviction than she’d felt thinking about it. Honestly, her parents are a sore topic for her. She missed them, before they’d fallen apart in front of her – they’d been a good family. A great family. Mixed and perfect. Supportive.  She needs a reminder of that. Something to bolster her on the days she felt like she was fucking it all up.

Her eyes shift to Solas, who looks rather contemplative. “Are you coming with me, _Hilo_?”

His answer is immediate and definitive. “Of course, Herald.” He falls into formality so easily. It makes her nose scrunch and her eyes squint. Shaking her head, Jayla turns back to the Nightingale.

“I want Varric to meet us in Kirkwall – that’s where that emporium is right? The kids will be put on a boat back with Cullen’s men and Irina, who is coming with us as well as Templar Rickson. We should go in a weeks’ time, give us – me a chance to bolster the kid’s wardrobes and settle anything you need me to deal with before we go. I think, maybe plan for us to be gone at least two.” Jayla leans over the map with little markers and notes on them.

“Have … hm. Have Cullen’s men gather resources from the hinterlands, but don’t send an extra full squad, a half squad with several of the heavy work horses should be adequate. Most of what’s out there is plant life. We brought back more drake stone than I know what we’ll do with, and Iron as well. But, if they have the inclination there were a few places we saw onyx and never pulled the loose nuggets up.” Her hand reaches for one of Cullen’s markers, setting it on the Hinterlands, as her eyes shift around the map.

“Have Josephine send a delegation to the mourning ceremony the noble is holding in Highever. Your people will need to start the information trade. I know we aren’t swimming in riches, if we are, I’d like to know what we’ve been selling and to who it’s being sold.” Her fingers pick up two other markers and set them down. Her eyes scan the notes on the map. They stick to another coastal Bannorn marker.

“Have Cullen send men and supplies for the refugees; the Bann can suck a lemon we will not be displacing more people simply because he doesn’t like them. That is not our purpose. You can let Cullen know he can tell him that as well. In fact, I encourage him to give the good Bann what for.”

Straightening up, she looks over things, and then zones in on the marker for the legend they’d been following in the Hinterlands. Impulsively, Jayla plucks a marker for both Leliana and Josephine and places them beside the legend marker. “If you and Josephine could both work on whatever that legend leads to, I’ll be grateful. Other than that, continue as you have been, you all do good work. It’s nice to know that while I’m being pretty, you guys have all the hard shit taken care of.”

The Herald had taken to dealing with the map markers without prompting or even a suggestion hinting they wanted her input. In fact, the Herald has never been a passive little girl content to be told what to do. Leliana can appreciate that tenacity. What she appreciates more is the quiet leadership that Jayla’s been building within herself. In the last handful of months, Leliana has seen the otherworlder blossom through reports from her agents.

She is still soft, unwilling to make sacrifices of her people, but Jayla is becoming a rather effective face of the Inquisition. Her handling of the mob just this morning is proof of that. Her handling of the children, of Cullen, of having to learn how to take a life – all of it is impressive. And the dark woman has accepted her place with nary a whimper.

She reminds Leliana of the Warden.

“As you say, your Worship. We’ll arrange for a boat to Rivain from the Denerim or Highever port, and then when you send word, a contingent will meet you to ride with you and Solas to Kirkwall where you will meet with Varric. The children and Irina will have a full guard on their way home to us. No harm will come to them. In the meantime, while you are all gone, we will find out just how deep the issue you’ve brought to me goes.”

“Thank you, Leliana.”

“Of course.” She smiles at the younger woman, a ghost of a smile she might have given her dearest friend once upon a time. She should speak with Mahariel, or leave a dead drop to be delivered to Avernus to pass on. It has been too many years of silence.

“I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got treats to make. Do you like fruit desserts, Leliana?” She asks as an afterthought, body turned toward Solas already.

“I am fond of raspberry and apple tarts.” The answer is surprisingly honest. If Leliana were anyone else, it would have her eyes big, shocked at her own candidness. But, she is not anyone else, and thus her surprise does not show.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” The Herald smiles sweetly, her hand dusting along Solas’ shoulder as she turns properly to let him know they’re leaving. It seems to be an unconscious gesture, and Leliana wonders of often she’s done that. How many little gestures for one another’s benefit do they have that they are unaware of? Perhaps she will pay a visit to the Iron Bull. He has seen them while they are out on the field, he will have a better perspective on the nature of the relationship that seems to be budding between their two apostates.

“Are you sure it’s wise to separate from the children on the return trip?” Solas questions Jayla as they leave one of the side doors of the Chantry. He doesn’t tense when Jayla looks at him sharply, keeping his gait and gaze even. The Elder had noticed himself slipping, touching the Herald more often, being more demonstrative than is wise. He isn’t sure what fuels the desire to touch her more and more often, but it is a touch worrying in light of this development.

“Do you think it wiser to bring them with us to Kirkwall? I’m not sure if you’ve been paying attention when Varric speaks but Kirkwall doesn’t sound like it’s child friendly at the moment. If it ever was.” Her brows are raised, eyes sharp as she speaks. He could appreciate her hesitance in bringing the children with them. He was simply – Irina is a capable woman, the Commander’s men are capable, but to leave them in someone else’s hands while they travel makes him uneasy.

“It isn’t. I won’t argue that point. But, perhaps I should accompany them back here. I know you are capable of protecting yourself, and you will have Ser Rickson with you. Irina is a nanny, not a warrior and –“

“You worry.” Her tone and visage soften as she realizes where his question was coming from. She shifts to the side, bumping his hip with hers. It’s a fluid movement, lasting only a moment or two before she has replaced the proper distance between them. “We’ll talk about it while I bake.”

Now his brows twitch with interest, ears moving just a little. She bakes? That means sweets. They’ve been doing savory for months now, even in Val Royeaux they’d only had time for a single trip to a café for lunch and he’d not gotten anything sweet. A frivolous hope bubbles in his chest.

“Bake? And what will you be baking, Da – Herald?”

He watches the way her face scrunches in displeasure when he calls her Herald. Here, he must. In private, and on the road when they were often alone, is a different situation. While she is surrounded by humans, he would keep his affections close to the chest. Closer now that he knows people have taken notice and are reacting as he’d known they would. Humans were – are – terribly race-centric when it came to romantic relationships. Sex – well, that is a different story entirely for most. It makes his teeth grind.

“I have some sweet fruits, so maybe a tarte, and honestly that bag of flour is huge, so bread for the week, if I can get enough milk and eggs from one of the farmers in the surrounding area or from Belle. Maybe a cake if I am feeling truly ambitious.” She leans in a touch, voice lowered conspiratorially, “Belle had sugar, I might have bought two bags of it for us to make treats.”

They detour through the town, to go buy bolts of cloth from Seggrit, Solas a step behind and to the right of Jayla, something he hadn’t done consciously. It was the way of things. Had it been years ago, they might walk side by side, the mark on her hand denoting them as equals. Or, if it were during the wars, she would be at his right, a sword in hand at all times, her armor brimming with enchantment and protection magic. But, they are not in the past, and he hadn’t started this purposely, though he still denoted himself as the ‘lesser’ member of the relationship. It’s not inaccurate. Here Solas is a lowly apostate. Jayla is seen as a Rivianese Noble, the Herald of Andraste. No one is her equal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hilo - sweetheart  
> Da'ara - Little desire


	26. It's not a game anymore *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh there's a bit of NSFW in this one.

 

 

The glorious thing about the house they are now living in, beyond the room for the children, beyond the kitchen were the tarts are currently in the small oven, are the floors. The floors of the house are stone. Clearly, this house was restored for someone of importance, because there is a fine shine to the floors, and they are as even as one will get here in a land where backhoes and such aren’t available. She loves it.

And because the day has been trying, to say the least, Jayla is taking a moment to indulge herself. She’s fetched her point shoes from her travel pack, and has them tied on. This isn’t going to be the most comfortable she’s ever been dancing, what with Solas having healed the damage she’d done to herself training, but she will be able to dance safely. Using a chair as her barre, she warms up, going through the motions with dedication, feeling her worry and apprehension draining a little more every movement and form she goes through. Solas and the four youngest children are stationed against the wall, watching her with curious eyes.

To share this with them, the first thing she’s ever loved, fills Jayla with a sense of joy. She’d been worried, for a time, that she’d never get to wear her pointe shoes again. But now, as she shifts through her warm ups, it’s like welcoming an old friend home. She’s pained, but it is an old pain, one she embraces with open arms and a smile on her face.

When she’s warmed up properly, muscles gently readied for what’s to come, she shifts the chair to a place it won’t get in the way and centers herself in the room. Familiar piano music swells as she sets her mind to it, and in no time, Jayla’s body moves as if she’d never stopped dancing en pointe months ago. The song, is slow, sad, but the dance she puts together, speaks of happiness. The little awed gasps make her heart soar, and she executes a few of the more ‘impressive’ moves for the children to see.

The single time Solas had seen Jayla dance in this manner had been in the fade, and she had only been doing her forms, attempting to center herself properly, to meditate. He’d thought it strange then, but now, seeing her fairly glide around the room, it’s beautiful. An artform long lost to the people of this age. Perhaps lost to his people as well. He can remember no dancer with this kind of technical skill, nor the fluidity of movement, the grace in the face of pain.

This is a dance, an art form, that destroys the body. He’d seen evidence to support that claim. Healed that evidence. As she twirls and shifts between movements, the elven man desperately wishes he had parchment in the room with him, parchment and his charcoal. This moment, where her heart is so clearly seen, needs to be placed down in some form, so someone later may enjoy it. So that others may marvel at the beauty she creates with just her body and emotions.  

He had wondered, in Val Royeaux, how Jayla could school her features as well as she had, how she stood to nobles as if their vapid attitudes didn’t bother her. Her citation of school children being cruel hadn’t explained the ability away. But now, as she tells a story with her body, her face, he knows. He can see it.

And though she is controlled, there is an edge of wildness too her. No movement is perfect, there is nothing stiff about her, and from the look of her movements earlier with the chair – this dance form is all about perfection. Everyone in tune, on the beat, perfectly posed and poised during the performance.

Mythal and Elgar’nan would have loved such an artform had it been part of the Empire. The dedication to perfection, the damage it did to the body, the beauty of it. It would have been an artform dedicated to them, and only the highest, most accomplished of dancers would be seen at their temples, festivals.  The thought makes his stomach turn, but at the same time, Solas knows Jayla would have carved a spot out for herself.

As she lets the music change, and the children all lean forward, entranced by her, enchanted by the dancing, her movements become livelier. They match the song more completely, the joyful quality of her movements reflected in the music. The tempo and her desires shifting and swirling to create a synergy effect.

She dances until sweat soaks the collar of her tunic, and her breath comes faster than it usually does, yet there is only happiness and a sense of content surrounding her. Even as she dashes for the kitchen, the smell of sugar and berries filling the house. The children rush after her, and he has no choice but to follow.

“That was beautiful, Jayla.” His voice makes him blink, mildly startled by how low it is. Solas had known he found it beautiful – but to this extent? He edges away from the children, toward the woman who had cooked in his home, her home, **their** home. The woman who sleeps in his bed, who comes to him when she needs comfort. _His_ woman.

“Mamae! So pretty!” The small girls gush and scamper to press their hands against her legs, looking up at her with wide and adoring eyes. Even Varhnen watches, blue grey eyes alight with wonder as he nears her.

With an expert grace that only mothers should have, Jayla navigates around the children, setting down bubbling warm deserts. The buttery smell of pastry, and sweet tart scent of the fruits invade his senses, and mingle with her own scent. He wants to snatch her up, to press her against him, to steal as many kisses as he can before something inevitably interrupts them. Solas is patient, must be now, but for Jayla – he feels the impatience he’d always known in his youth.

“Thank you, ducklings.” Her murmur, the happiness in her voice makes his heart beat double in his chest. The intensity with which he feels for this woman is – remarkable. Never has such domesticity called to him, enthralled him, enticed him. But now, watching her with the children, the food, knowing her as he knows her – all Solas wants is Jayla right now.

“Teach us! I want to dance pretty like you do, Mamae!” Little Eldhru clings to Jayla’s leg, an impish grin on spritely features.

The way Jayla indulges the little girl, adjusting to the extra weight while she retrieves the berry filled cake makes Solas swallow hard. Were that these children were theirs, not just in name, but in blood. He wants that. Intensely wants that. A family chosen is just as dear as a family of blood, but spirits save the man, he wants her to- he wants to have -. He wants a child that has her eyes, her smile, his nose. It’s a feeling so desperate that it catches him off guard, kicking him the chest and leaving him stunned in the wake of it.

“Solas?”

Jayla whispers her partner’s name, blinking rapidly as she looks at him. _Really_ looks at him. His eyes are almost black and he is staring at her like she’s the **only** thing he’s ever wanted. It’s daunting. It’s – devastatingly exciting. His hands are clenching at his sides, eyes never leaving her, and she can only imagine what has him rooted to spot. Ellie pulls on her pants leg and her eyes avert, the little girl pouting up at her. Her brain swirls to remember what it is that was asked – demanded, of her.

“It isn’t easy, little dove. To dance like me takes years, and years of learning, years and years of practicing. But it is beautiful, isn’t it?”

“I want to learn!”

“Me too!” “I want to learn!” The girls all cry their desires out to their mother figure and only the little boy hesitates. It’s only for a moment, and then his chin tilts up, storm cloud eyes becoming determined.

“I want to learn, Mamae, please?”

And just like that, Jayla’s heart melts and she looks at four cherubic faces around her. They were gaining weight. Thank the Maker. Thinking on her own childhood, Jayla gnaws on her lip. Stability. They need structure, things to do. Things to keep them interested and active. Insofar as she was able, as Solas was able, it was their job to provide these things to them.

“All right. But! If I catch you not practicing the lessons stop – understood?” The children cheer, swarming her legs with hugs before they run off as a group, trying to do pirouettes and recreate the exercises she’d done. It leaves her with Solas, who is still looking at her as if she is the only source of happiness or desire he’s ever seen. It makes her breath catch, that look in his eyes, and she unconsciously takes a step back, away from him.

She shouldn’t have. His expression turns feral and the smile that curls his lips makes her heart pound in her chest. It sends fizzling delight through her as well, settling and swirling in her belly. When he takes a step forward, Jayla tries to stand her ground. She truly does. But he takes another and she darts around the table, putting it between them.

Jayla wanted him. He could smell it the moment her body caught up with her brain. That sweet anticipation mixed with heady musky desire. He wants desperately to roll in that scent, the scent that says she wants him – that she’s his to have and to hold. Her darting away only solidifies the want brewing in his belly. They’d stepped on a road they hadn’t intended, it could go so badly from here, but he can’t bring himself to care.

He wants her. Like nothing else in this world, Solas wants the Herald. He follows her, stalks her around the table, watches the way her eyes dilate, how her breath comes shallowly and revels in the way her scent takes over the room. Normal humans wouldn’t notice, and the children who rampage upstairs certainly won’t. And he’s glad they are away from here. Nothing is going to stop what’s about to happen.

Especially when Jayla trips over her feet and nearly crashes to the ground. His arms circle her waist and pull her toward him. In seconds, they go from having three feet between them to being pressed from chest to hip and belly. He hadn’t realized he had become truly aroused until she gasps, body shifting against his and a harsh sound leaving his lips.

Not thinking, Solas lifts a hand, putting up barriers much like the ones they’d encountered in the hinterlands. Opaque after a fashion, impenetrable but by magic, and it covers the door, the three windows in the room. He’s so tired of kissing her being interrupted. This moment, stolen as it is – he won’t see it end quickly.

Her eyes dart over his shoulder, blinking owlishly before they return to their norm, sliding to his as she takes her lip between her teeth. She worries her lip, berry red already, something he’s thought about often, the shape of them, the way they feel pressed to his. His hands move while his mind whirls with a hundred thoughts all centered on her. His body knows what it wants without the need for a directive.

Solas hauls her into his arms and she feels the breath leave her. He’d saved her from minor embarrassment and provided her with – quite a bit of information. The length of him presses against her belly and wiggling isn’t an option she can ignore. How often has she thought about this?  Very quietly thought about this, in the privacy of her own mind, far from hours when she expected to sleep.  

His magic shimmers through the kitchen, dances over her skin and makes her eyes flutter closed. Why was she just now finding that his magic should feel like this? Is it because she is receptive? Because _he_ is receptive? So many questions without answers, and a moment quiet enough where she doesn’t know that she really wants answers. When his aura settles, surrounding them, but now moving, not creating magic, her eyes open, flit over his shoulder – a barrier? Oh. **Oh**.

Her lip is pulled between her teeth, eyes shifting back to his and the – the sheer want makes her mouth go dry. She is pliant, letting him pick her up, legs winding around his hips in an instant. He’s got her pressed against his length, and she can look right at his face now, hands settling on his shoulders.

“Solas.”

“ _Vhenan’ara_.” The rasped endearment sets her heart going double in her chest. So many names, what do they all mean? She’s got half a mind to ask when his lips press to hers, gentle, seeking. It is a sweet kiss, warm, building. He asks for permission, a swipe of his tongue. Familiar territory, she accepts without a thought, lips parting head tilting just a touch to the right for him.  The difference in all this – is Solas not devouring her, there is a touch of urgency but something more. He’s being thorough, taking his time, leading her to a different version of arousal. To date it has been frantic, a desire that had to be dealt with right then or the world would end.

This is slow building. It starts with her heart beat ramping up, her skin warming with each half-disconnected kiss and exploratory touch of Solas’ hands. And his hands are not idle. One slides against her skin, having insinuated itself under her shirt rather deftly, he traces the plane of her stomach, the tips of his fingers swipe at the bottom curve of her breasts in turn before his right-hand slides around to her back, slipping down and manages, rather miraculously, to grab a palm full of her ass.

Jayla isn’t the kind to let her partner do _all_ the lead up work. Her legs tighten, pulling him closer and her lips leave his to tail over his jaw. He responds so nicely to the little kisses, that she urges him closer with her arms still wrapped around his shoulders. She pulls him in, presses him flush to her, ignoring the wonderful pressure against her core, and setting her lips and teeth to his neck. The desire to leave her mark on him drives her, the half-aborted thrusts against her and the kneading of his fingers fuels the way she kisses, and sucks marks onto his skin. The biggest is right under his left ear. He shudders the whole way through the creation of it, growls low in his chest and it drives Jayla a little bit wild. Such an innocent thing in the grand scheme of their actions has him tugging her closer, rolling his hips against hers rhythmically.

She’s going to be the end of him. Like there is a homing beacon on them, the dark-haired woman zones in on every spot that makes his toes curl. He’s so hard now that he aches, and she, while running hot, is seemingly unaffected. It just won’t do. He has never left a lover unsatisfied and refuses to do so now. With care, Solas partially extracts himself from her hold, laughing darkly at her pout. He whispers for her to be patient, broken common and elvhen swirling around on his tongue. It’s clear enough from context what he’s said, or he hopes it is, as he shifts the hand that had been on her ribs down into her leggings and smalls.

To go for her sweetest places so directly is – not his usual path. But it has been a long time, and Solas only has so much will power. Taking her mouth again, he is careful in the limited space he has. He pets gently at her keeping pressure where he knows it will make her squirm or shiver or moan. He waits until the first twitch of her hips before his fingers part her lips, tongue doing the same, middle finger dipping between them. She’s more aroused than he’d anticipated and the heat of her, the slick he finds, has him groaning into her mouth, a sound she readily devours and answers readily.

The lack of shame Jayla shows for taking pleasure in their current embrace is grounding for Solas. He has ever desired women like the Herald. She is bold, honest, talented, free with herself. There is no fear in her of being overheard, no shame coloring her face as he pulls away to watch her while his middle finger slides along her clit in a slow teasing circle. He isn’t disappointed, her eyelids flutter, head tilting back just a tough as she sighs. It’s a pretty picture, one he will revisit on the nights that are most trying, when he is lonely and far, far, away from her. But, for now, he will soak in her reactions, bathe himself in her pleasure and make the most of a stolen moment.

The circles are slow, just the right side of gentle and driving Jayla insane. She has never had this kind of build up to sex before. Granted, three total experiences to compare it too didn’t make her an expert in the matter. But, she’s so used to the men she slept with finding her wet enough to accommodate them and getting right to it. Solas – Solas is trying to do, something. He plays with her, his eyes on her every time she makes a sound he likes. Her hands fist in the fabric at the shoulders of his tunic when he increases pressure, stops moving in a circle and goes for a tried, true, back and forth movement. Her lips is caught between her teeth as she lets loose a long low moan of approval.

He growls at her, attacks her mouth, has her leaning back, legs having shifted to bracket his hips to give him more room to work. It’s – This is far different than her memories of sex. High school fumbling and thrusting do not count, either. She counted drunken nights in her art school, the terribly thought out one night stand from the bar she worked at. When they did use their fingers, long after they’d cum and tossed away their condoms, it wasn’t like this. They shoved into her, much like they had with their cocks and simply ridden her until she made the appropriate noises to get them to stop.

Solas. She’d love for him to _never_ stop touching her. The hand that had been on her ass moves, shifts between them, palms at her breast through her tunic. The fabric rasps against her and makes her draw in a shuddering breath. One that has a positively vicious smile coming to Solas’ face. He kisses her jaw, nips along the shell of her ear that makes her shiver again before he speaks to her in a low tone.

“You respond so well, _Vhenan’ara_. It drives a man to wonder how you will sound when my mouth is on you, or when I’ve seated my cock inside you.”

Jesus tap dancing Christ on the fucking cross. Her nails dig into the man’s shoulders, a whimper drawn from her throat, hips bucking against his hand. She didn’t know Solas had that kind of mind. Everyone knows the theory – it’s always the quiet ones – Solas is rapidly shaping up to be the embodiment of the sentiment.

“Shall I find out, _Vhenan_?” His breath puffs against her ear as he speaks, as his fingers shift and the tips of two dip into her entrance. It’s got her mouth dropping open, soft unintelligible noises replacing speech. This isn’t fair. He is asking a question and denying her the ability to answer. Her hips rock just a touch and her nipple is pinched gently making her gasp.

“ _Vhenan_ – Jayla – Shall I find out? Do you want me to use my mouth to send you to the clouds?”  His fingers torture her with shallow thrusts that attack every nerve ending she wasn’t even aware she had at her entrance. Jayla works to form words before growling and grabbing the infuriating elven man by the ears as gently as possible and pulling him to her.

“ _Hilo_ , just fuck me. Stop teasing.”

Her teeth bite at his lip and he groans, the wild look on her face, the growl, her pulling at his ears as she had – his patience is rubbing thin. He could cry at her eager nature, as it is he removes his hands from her in a rush, making her whine plaintively. Their hands rip at the laces of their breeches. He marvels at the way she wiggles and twists without actually leaving the counter, her leggings to midthigh in a blink, his meeting a similar fate not moments later. Her shirt is rucked up under her arms, his above her knees, and she is pressed in half as he eases into her. Swearing impressively Solas praises her, the grasping welcoming warmth of her body that he’d certainly given thought to but never imagined he’d have.

He growls and rumbles elven at her as her nails scrape his hips, thrusting as his muscles tense in reaction to the sensation. She bites at his lip, shifts to suck another bruise onto the skin just below his right ear this time and he half presses her down to the table to get her away. It gives him an advantage, the shift in her position, he slides deeper and clearly finds spots inside her that are pleasing as her back bows up off the wood, a wordless howl clawed from her throat.

Jayla swims in a haze of excitement, a tinge of discomfort and overwhelming delight. He felt so good, the drag of him as he retreats and the piercing pleasure when his cock moves back into her. Usually, and gods she needs to _stop_ comparing this to her history, it was nice. It wasn’t enough to make her howl or her back bow like it does. She doesn’t leave scratch marks on people or make claiming marks on them in places they are unable to hide. But Solas – Maker, God, whomever made this man – has also made her kryptonite. He listens to her, gauges what keeps her loud and what makes her squirm in discomfort. Her legs are trapped in her leggings, thrown over his forearms as he leans against the counter top. She’s been laboring under all the wrong assumptions when it comes to sex.

First of all – wide cocks are lovely. And Solas is wide, stretching her pleasantly, long enough to make her squirm and gasp as well. A fucking good combination if her rapidly soring throat can be given as evidence. She’s so preoccupied with the feeling of him, she doesn’t notice at all the way Solas lacks body hair. Nothing pokes at her or provides coarse friction to her clit as he thrusts and grinds against her. The grinding is her favorite, it sends sparks up her spine that resettle throbbing between her thighs. All there is, is a slick slide of skin on skin, pressure that waxes and wanes as her mage works them both over.

She explores him with frantic hands, a strange half crunch that makes her abdomen burn, but who cares in the face of watching his face as she finds spots that make him shiver. He likes his sides scratched, his hips traced over. He loves when she flexes her vaginal muscles around him and digs his fingers into her hips, pulling her against him as he makes the shallow grinding thrusts that she loves.

But like all things, it has to come to an end. Solas rests a hand on her lower stomach, thumb sliding over her clit and his thrusts start losing rhythm when she feels it. That coiling sensation, like she’s about to go over the drop on a huge roller coaster.

 _“Gara sul’em_ , _Jayla_.” He groans the words down to her, leaning, bending her more, lifting her a touch as he steals a kiss. It’s enough. The change in angle, the next thrust, and she’s falling apart with whimpers and groans underneath him. Her hands cling to his shoulders as her legs squeeze against his sides. It doesn’t take Solas long to fly over the cliff with her, not that Jayla even notices. They lay together, half trapped in their clothes, contorted in Jayla’s case, winded but completely satisfied.

“Tara,” Eldhru sits at the top of the stairs with the eldest girl child, eyes round as saucers, “what were they doing?” The elder children had come home not long after the barrier to the kitchen had shimmered into being. The first moan that reverberated through the house had Tara and Ben herding their siblings upstairs with wide eyes.

They’d known, the Herald had said that this was her and Solas’ home. But they didn’t realize they were a proper couple. Tara and Ben both know what sex is, or whom may engage in it. Tara’s seen plenty trysts in the circle, Ben knew well what it was hunters got up to with their intended bond mates. This was just – so unexpected.

“They are – petitioning the gods for a sibling for us.” Tara chooses her words carefully. Eldhru is too little to know this yet. Mamaes and Papaes didn’t typically explain this to the da’len until they were older than Tara. Tara knew only because of her upbringing in the circle.

“Oh. But I like being the littlest.”

_Thank the Maker she bought it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not my best smut work, but as their first rushed time, I couldn't exactly get all detailed and let them get super into it with long drawn out foreplay. Also: Eldhru is my favorite.  
> Also I apologise for the wait for this chapter. A friend flew into town and I was tour guide for five days. It was a whirlwind of a week. God I am so tired lol. Still it was great to see them, it's great to read and talk to all of my lovely readers as well. I appreciate your feedback so much I can't put it into words. You guys are what keep me writing!
> 
> Gara sul'em - Come for me  
> Vhenan/Vhenan'ara - Heart/Heart's desire  
> Hilo (O Hilo) - Sweetheart


	27. The Ripples preceding the Wave

The rest of the week passes quickly in Haven. Jayla is found sewing in the Tavern, with Varric, sometimes during the War Council meetings. Her fingers are sure and her needle moves in a flash as she works to bolster her childrens' wardrobes. Not only that, she and Solas have become attached at the hip quite literally of late.

Just thinking about it makes her lips curl into a secretive smile. Jayla still knows this is a train wreck waiting to happen, but for the moment, she cares for him so much, this time is something to be cherished and enjoyed. And she does – repeatedly, sometimes three times in a night. Which surprised the young woman to no end. She hadn’t thought Solas would have it in him, he appears to be at least 40, but he recovers like a teenager and has the stamina of a man in his prime. Perhaps Elven men are more akin to human women? Not hitting their sexual peak until middle age and going strong as they become older?

“Herald. Lady Shepard!” Cassandra’s voice makes the black woman jump, needle pricking her finger and making her swear. Sighing, she shoves the injured finger into her mouth and looks at the warrior with a frown.

“Sorry. I’m just, preoccupied with the upcoming trip. The Seekers are absolutely a group we should be contacting, but I’m not sure how well that’s going to go over. The Lord Seeker didn’t seem at all interested in joining with the Inquisition while the Grand Enchanter sent an invitation by runner to us to visit the Rebellion in Redcliffe.”  Distracted, but utterly able to pick up the thread of conversation. A skill honed from hours upon hours of having to practice while also studying for exams. Her eyes settle on the map.

Two green gems sit there, one over Therinfal Redoubt and one over Redcliffe Village. Her lips purse as she eyes the two. The Templars had followed the clearly unstable Lord Seeker. There is little hope but for Cullen to send out yet another plea for the Templars to join with the Inquisition. She doubts it will land on listening ears. The Mages, while some run wild, need a home. They need advocates, backers, someone who will stand up and say they are not all monsters, or inherently weak. The Templars already overstep their boundaries as often as they are able.

“We will go to the Redcliffe Mages.” Her voice rings over the advisors, and the quiet din of their discourse immediately falls silent. Looking up, Jayla finds Leliana looking at her with approval, Cassandra looks disheartened but accepting, Josephine, her mind is already whirling with ways to pitch it to the nobles they ply for trade and validity. Cullen – he is not happy, but Jayla will not go to the Templars. They would have to drag her there.

“Are you certain, Herald?” Josie’s lovely accent fills the room, eyes keen as she asks for confirmation.

“Absolutely,” her sewing is set aside for a moment, and she leans on the table with both hands. “The Templars had their moment in Val Royeaux, and it is clear the majority side with the Lord Seeker. Continue to send missives if you like, but they have made their bed. The Mages – they are looking for a way out of the war. I read the note, Grand Enchanter Fiona needs safe harbor for the young ones, a way for them all to redeem themselves in the eyes of the people after all this bloodshed in the name of Freedom. I say we give it to them. It’s high time the people of Thedas look at mages and see people rather than tools that are dangerous to wield and dangerous to let lie.  When we return from Rivain and Kirkwall, I will take Solas, Bull, Cassandra, Varric, and Rickson with me to Redcliffe.”

“Not Madam Vivienne?” Cassandra is the one who leans in to ask this, curiosity in her tone.

Jayla immediately shakes her head. She’s been listening, around the town, to the Enchanter who teachers her children, to Vivienne herself. Vivienne does not look kindly upon the Rebels, she likens them to wayward children. It would take time to make the Lady de Fer see the purpose that drove them to rebel. Time, they did not have before the visit. “No, she is pro-circle. I do not begrudge her that view, but it will make us no friends in Redcliffe.”

“And a Templar and Seeker will?” Leliana shifts, arms crossed under her chest, Jayla spares her a glance and half smile.

“A Templar and Seeker who fight beside the apostate Herald and her apostate lover? Absolutely.” Brows fly up around the room, Cullen looks like he’s swallowed something distasteful. Cassandra is hard to read, but Leliana has approval in her gaze. Josie – is also a touch hard to read.

“As you say, Herald. We will begin the preparations. Now, you leave in two days’ time, have you need of anything other than a cart and guards? A ship has been chartered for you, a well-known associate of your inner circle volunteered, and a town in Llomerryn awaits you and your party.”

“I believe we’re ready, as ready as we can be. This is the last set of pants I had to make, they should hold up to the more humid climate well. If not, I’ll work out a trade for something better suited.” Her shoulders hitch as she regards her last sewing project. She doesn’t realize how tired she looks to the others.

Leliana notes the light bruises that have flowered along her collarbones, the bags under her eyes. None of her people have said a thing about Jayla taking up her midnight dancing again. Clearly she and Solas have been making good use of their more secluded abode. It makes the redhead’s lips curl. She had, had such happiness once. Fleeting, and ultimately a lie, but for the moments it felt real, she still cherishes the memories. For all that Leliana can find no information on Solas, nor the town he claimed to hail from, she trusts him. Hopes he will not bite them as Marjorlane bit her.

“You should rest, Shepard. You’ve been working yourself to the bone. Talen and Mughen report you are quite adept with your blades, but –“

“Hesitate on the killing blow,” the sigh makes the spymaster frown. It’s a self-depreciative tone, but Jayla doesn’t look upset at all. That is dangerous. But, she imagines her teachers, her lover, and those of her inner circle have all made their opinions on the topic quite clear. For her to say more on the topic would be akin to beating a lame horse.

“As you say. It is something to work on. But for now – enjoy your little family and time amongst the Rivaini people. Enjoy the sea, learn all you can to strengthen your memory of your culture.” Speaking in riddles comes easily to the Nightingale. It is a talent she had hoped to one day put to rest, but in light of Jayla’s past, and the need for it here in the Inquisition she finds herself sharpening that blade.

“I will. Have no fear of that. A little time to reconnect is cherished.” She had asked Solas to draw out the designs, dragging him into a dream with her just the night prior to show him what she wanted placed upon her body. He’d marveled at the intricacy of them, blushed at the placement of her favorite. Blushed and promptly woken her to lavish the location with attention. The memory makes her cheeks warm.

“I leave you four to perform as admirably as you have been. I’ve got some things to do to make sure the ducklings are ready, and I promised Master Dennet a moment of my time, as well as Ser Blackwall.” She smiles, dipping into a little bow and fleeing the room. The young earthling is excited for this. Excited to receive her first tattoos and to add piercings she’d never dare get at home to the canvas of her body.

She dashes into the court yard, a smile on her face, fully intending on going to steal away Solas - just in time to see a man swing at her apostate. It happens seemingly in slow motion, her lover turning, brows furrowed, eyes narrow with anger, and the fist flying from the left to catch him off guard. His head snaps to the right and she is barreling across the short divide.

“What the fuck is going on here?!” Her voice cracks, raising in her anger, whipping in the still chilled spring winds. The attacker does not acknowledge her, moving to hit the elven man again. Jayla places herself in the way, flinching when the fist draws near but willing to take the blow. It doesn’t land.

Her eyes open to find him frosted over, not unlike when Vivienne had dealt with the Marquis. But the First Enchanter is nowhere to be seen, and Solas is pressed to her back. Her ire flares and she looks at the man who had dared attack Solas. “Explain this. Now.”

“The knife-ear –“

“ **Solas**. His. Name. is. **Solas**!” She takes a step away from the warmth of her lover but his hand on her waist keeps her from taking another.

“That knife-ear bastard,” and the assailant smiles in a manner closer to a sneer, “don’t know his place. None of ‘em do in this town. Time to make an example of them, remind them where they belong.” He looks _proud_ of what’s just happened. As if he’d done something important. As if – as if. As if it is right and good to beat a man who hasn’t the chance to defend himself to show him his place.

“And what is his place, Ser?” Her voice is eerily calm for the rage bubbling in her heart. It is the most absolute anger she’s ever felt in her life. There is murmuring around them, a crowd attracted by her yelling no doubt, but she doesn’t care. He’ll answer for this.

“Rabbits aren’t like the rest of us. They aren’t worth the treatment you give’em. Heard they was getting paid more, ‘cause of you bedding one of ‘em.” He spits on the ground at her feet and Jayla’s hands turn into fists.

“Herald –“Her hand lifts to hush Solas, just for a moment. He won’t get her to walk away from this. He got her to still her tongue at the Salon, she didn’t make a scene there. But this is _their home_ and their children live here. Men like this – it can’t be let go.

“So, you would beat a man because he seems to not know his station in life. Is that correct, Ser?”

“Aye. He ought to know where he is on the ladder of things.”

“Then I should be taught my place too.” The crowd hushes and the hand on her waist tightens to an uncomfortable degree. He doesn’t know he’s doing it, and Jayla isn’t going to correct him right now.

“M-My lady?” So now the sniveling little cheap shot is worried? Her head tilts, eyes wide, making her look more innocent than she is.

“You said so. I’m bedding an elven man, though really the proper way to say it would be he’s bedding me, and thusly he’s become uppity. Clearly, I am as much of the problem as he is – so I have to be shown my place as well. And since you’re volunteering, I can only assume this means it’ll be you to do so.” The lilt of her voice is dangerous, Solas doesn’t know what madness has taken the small woman but he cannot undermine her here in front of people. He wants to yell at her for being reckless. For being overprotective. One punch may injure his pride, but it would not kill him, not make him meek.

“But y-you’re the Herald!”

“Yes. I am. And you attacked one of my people.” That lilt, the way she speaks, he would have noticed her in any age. Too proud to bend, to wise to be kept silent. “You attacked one of my people because you heard a rumor we were sleeping together, that elves might be paid an equal wage. That the people in charge here treat everyone with the respect they deserve. All because _you_ feel that isn’t the way things should be.”

A whisper of anger threads through Jayla’s mind. It’s foreign, not her own, and shakes her instantly. _Don’t be afraid_. Something beyond the veil presses against it, up against her free side. _Teach the cretin his place_. _Let me help you_. Her head shakes and she sucks in a deep breath. No. This wasn’t happening right now.

“I. I apologize my Lady. I did not mean offence.” The fool of a man apologizes to her, and it makes her anger surge again. But with it comes that voice and the thing beyond the veil presses closer to her.

“I am not the one you will apologize you. Solas is the one you wronged. Solas is the one who requires the apology.” She steps aside, toward the people who are still and watching with wide eyes. There are guards, soldiers, who look confused, not knowing how to handle the situation. The advisors have come out of the chantry, Vivienne is there as well, and Jayla sighs internally.

“Elves are not lower than anyone in this town, lest they are subordinates in the military. But they are always equal to their fellow scout, and soldier. Elves are people, as much as any mage, any peasant, any Lord or Lady within the walls of Haven. Haven is a place of peace, we will not bow under the corruption that has plagued Thedas for far too long. We will rise above it, and show the world what it is to walk on the path of what is right and good!” She eyes the man to her left and then Solas behind her.

“The Inquisition is above such petty things as racism. Today, just moments ago, a man was assaulted before the Chantry. He will be punished for it, as anyone should be. Beating the defenseless is a _crime_. Attacking Mages, Templars, Elves, are _crimes_.” She waves a guard toward her, indicating the man who had yet to open his mouth, simply staring at Solas with contempt in his eyes.

“I will not tolerate hatred where I lay my head. I will not fight to save this world so we may fill it with hatred, so we might perpetuate the harm and pain that caused it to fracture. This town is the future of Thedas. I walk from the gates of Haven to close the Breach, to save us all from what may be rained down upon us should the sky crack open. I will not do so if this town holds hate in its heart! I will not stand by and allow another war to brew here. We are all equal. We all have red blood in our veins, our ears do not differentiate us anymore than our skin does. Magic – in any form, does not mean there is evil in our hearts, that we are damned from the moment we are born into this world! Thedas has been torn asunder far too many times for us to keep doing so now. So, if you refuse to give up the blind hatred, the blind fear, if you refuse to treat Elves, Mages, Templars, Lords, Ladies, and the lowliest urchin as equals – this town is not your home any longer.”

“Herald!” A chorus of shocked cries rises up, murmurs running through the crowd. Josephine is stunned. Upset. It can’t be helped. Jayla will not bow and scrape for anyone, she will treat the visiting dignitaries with respect, but not as if they are her betters. She turns back to the two men who stand silent before her. One angry, one shocked.

“The apology if you please, Ser. Unless you would prefer a three day stay in our illustrious dungeon.”

He spits at her feet, again, and her placid face turns sour. Shaking her head, the gesture for the guard to take the assailant away. Once again, Jayla is stunned when the _Commander_ walks to her side, facing the people, and tells them to return to their jobs. He supports her position, and doesn’t sneer at her at all, leaving with a soft “by your leave, my lady”.

Solas, her dear _Hilo_. He is looking at her as if he has seen her for the first time. It makes her cheeks heat, and she sidles up to him, brushing their fingers together. “Solas?”

He cannot believe this little woman. The woman who takes on demons and prays for the souls of those that attempt to kill her on the field. The woman who takes in children that would have been left to die. Who readily accepts him, after he has attacked her, harmed her. This woman who will take on the world if she must to secure a better future for his people, the mages, even the twice blighted Templars. What society raised a woman such as this? What human could see the People as equal? Would dare go against the established status quo? He wants nothing more than to grab her up and kiss her until her breath is gone and her eyes go glassy.

He won’t – not here. But his fingers tangle with hers, and he smiles gently at her. “My Lady?”

Those dark eyes he adores so much blink rapidly at him. He has never called her that, but he will from now on. She is his, and she should have been a noble. She should be a princess, a queen, something more than a woman forced to be a warrior. They stare at one another for a time before her lips curl and her head shakes. She murmurs something, something soft and fond before raising up her free hand to hover over his cheek. Warmth suffuses his face, and light drips from her palm as she heals him, saves him from a bruise.

“Let’s go home, _hilo_.”


	28. Letters

Broody –   
Got a wild one headed down your path. Small, foot taller than me, darker than Rivaini, also Rivaini, got 12 ducks with her and one Broodier than you. Keep the Wild Princess safe. Hell bring her to Daisy. I’ll forgive that ten-sovereign debt from a year ago. 

Daisy –   
12 little ones, a mom, and a pop coming your way in a week. Our people. Keep’em safe.

Rivaini –   
No seducing this one. It’s Falcon and Broody all over again.


	29. Siren's Flight

Jayla is still mad when night falls over Haven. She is restless, and can’t even sit still enough for Solas to ply her with kisses. It’s the first time since their first time in the kitchen she turns away from him. She pretends not to see him deflate.

“ _Vhenan_ , you must know that your views on Elves are –“

“Please don’t, _Hilo_.”  Her voice is soft and she leans against him, into the embrace he readily gives her while they sit in the great room. The children went to bed as daylight waned, dinner eaten and stored already. There is nothing left for her to occupy herself with. “I don’t want to think about that disgusting man and what he did. I don’t want to be angry again.”

Solas nods, the motion enough for her to relax. But not for long, she is up and running her hands through her hair, hair she should re-twist but can’t find the time to anymore. She paces, feels her lover’s eyes on her and tries to figure something out to do.

“Jayla. Go and dance.” His voice is like velvet wrapping around her. It’s the first time he’s suggested it, after weeks of attempting to get her to stop. It has the young woman pausing, brows raised, dark eyes shining at him in the firelight. The look on her face must be amusing, because he chuckles, and pushes himself to stand as well.

“You haven’t in months, and it must dig at you. I will ward the house, I will watch over you as I did in the beginning. You may even wear my tunic again, the one you favored so often.” A predatory smile pulls his lips and he lets it curl his mouth. He enjoys the flush to her cheeks and the way she tries to brush off her previous actions.

“It worked. The tails on that tunic are much like what I wore during performances with my group.” Such an image – of Jayla in a skirt that shows more than it hides, makes Solas’ blood rush, and jealousy curl quietly in his stomach. He doesn’t like that he’s not the only one to see her gorgeous legs, or know the various ways her hips can move. However, he would not change his heart for the world.

“Then I must lend it to you again.” He stands, catching the young woman by her hip with one hand, the other tucking under her chin to pull her face up. “If I am to allow the eyes of other men to look upon you, I would prefer to do it when you wear my clothing.”

A brow ticks up and her eyes darken, warmth in them he is quite aware of now. One of her hands lifts, grabbing a handful of his tunic – the very one they speak of, and lifts herself onto her toes. “I like it when you get territorial, _Hilo_.”  Her tongue flicks at his lips and he is overcome with the urge to steal her away to their bedroom and have her dance there. He instead, presses closer to Jayla, grabbing a handful of her arse, and kissing her breathless.

He draws it out until she has to use both hands to keep herself steady, and he feels her tremble. Then he lets her free, watching her as he pulls his shirt up and over his head, offering it to her with a smirk. But his little lover is not to be upstaged it seems. She, without hesitation, removes her own tunic, and her undershirt, deftly removes her boots and pants, before taking his tunic and sliding it over her momentarily mostly bare body. A body he knows now. He knows just how soft her skin is, how pliant she can be, how strong she is when she puts her mind to it. A memory of the night before flashes in his mind.

_Her hands on his chest, her legs bracketing his hips as she keeps her own pace. He desperately wants to thrust up into her, to watch her mouth drop open in surprise and to hear her groan. But those legs and her hands keep him mostly in place. It’s the way she can seemingly read his desires, the way she keeps him from concentration with a well-timed twist of her hips or pace that is suddenly double time._

_He is forced to just watch her, the way the moonlight makes the thin sheen of perspiration on her skin create a glow around her, how her eyes lid when she finds just the right angle. He is tortured by the slow undulation of her hips and her refusal to allow him the reigns of their lovemaking._

Jayla knows that look. When Solas’ eyes go unfocused before the blue of them turns dark and wanting. He’s thinking about them. About the absolutely delicious things they’ve gotten up to together the last few days. Her teeth catch hold of her bottom lip, and she trails her fingers along his abdomen. Abs that she’s licked, hips she’s bitten and sucked dark purple marks onto. Mm.

“Come on, _O Hilo_ , before I change my mind.”  The little Herald dances from the door way with her shirtless apostate not far behind.

He grabs his staff, eyes on his woman, the way her hips sway as she walks into the darkness of their copse of trees, throwing up every ward he can think of as quickly as he can. He’d loathed having to watch her before, before the Hinterlands, before knowing her dreams, before being gifted the taste of her kiss. It was. The ancient mage can’t truly put into words how she had tempted him then. She has always been beautiful, and perhaps that is why he cannot keep himself from her.

Cullen sees her and curses. He had thought, perhaps, that now the woman had children, had seen battle, knew that this life was not a game, he would not have to endure her dancing any longer. But here she is, toned legs on display, round hips teasingly in view. She comes to a stop before the gates, her makeshift training yard. It is a good place, if she must choose one, to do this.

Here he can see her, move to protect her if it comes to it. The Iron Bull, her mercenary body guard, is not but meters away. What surprises Cullen is when he sees the mage, Solas, come into view. He is more surprised the man is shirtless, and by how he prowls around her as she casts her spell, bringing forth the eerie green flame.

When she’d said, they were lovers, he hadn’t quite believed her. Hadn’t wanted to believe her. Humans of standing and elves never had the luxury of relationships. The world was against it, and no one flew in the face of the world. Not if they wanted to keep what little comfort they had as their own.

But there they are, the pale mage openly looking at her as a lover would, and her dance is. Cullen has always seen the mage Jayla as a feral creature. She is wild and untamable, she is crass and lacks the subtle dignity her station requires. But now, after months of being forced to be civil with her, he sees more in her. She is not just a mage, unconventional and unbreakable, she is a leader. He’d seen it in her when she stood between the Templar and the Mage who were ready to go for a throat. He’d heard it when she admonished the Chancellor, and again this very afternoon when she defended all who would be discriminated against.

Yes, the woman has biases. She hates Templars, tolerating only Rickson and showing the barest of civility to those she meets in the town. But she does not berate them. She never speaks poorly of them. She has chosen the mages, her own people, to save from whatever fate they have created for themselves, but still tells him to reach out to his former brothers. She punishes those who do wrong within Haven, but not with whips or any other form of pain, no, she isolates them, forces them to reflect upon her words.

Simply put his Herald is an enigma. He can’t fathom what culture she comes from to have the values she does, to have the willpower she so often shows and wields like a finely-honed weapon. Perhaps, she and the apostate are suited to one another. Truly suited, they work well together, from all the reports he has received, and if the passion she shows now is even a sliver what she gives to Solas – then the mage is a lucky man. Something that burns Cullen to admit even silently. To envy a mage their relationship with another mage… But, his mind casts back to Solona. Perhaps, if she had survived…

The music swells in her the moment Solas starts to prowl around her and her fire. It fills the air and Jayla throws herself into a dance. It is only the loosest form of Tribal dance tonight. The elements are there, in the music, in her movement, but mostly, she simply dances. Her moves match the pace of the music, her hips shake and roll, her arms shift jerkily with the beat in the appropriate places. And she only has eyes for Solas as she moves. Her lips curl softly, eyes smoldering as she makes up the dance on spot. It is fast paced, and gives her plenty of opportunity to allude to what they may be doing later.

The Iron Bull has heard stories about the Herald dancing like a ‘heathen’. He’d thought it was a rumor, an exaggeration. She has a dancer’s grace, but he’d never seen her move. It was his lucky night, as she drags her elf behind her to the place she trains. The green flames are odd, and put him on high alert, but the music gives him pause.

He’s heard bits of this before. Not the strange drums that can’t possibly be real, but the bits between. That is all Tevene. It has his back up, and he pops from his tent, to find Cremisius out of his, and taking in the dance properly. What he sees makes his good eye go wide.

She dances like one of the Tevinter slaves. Suddenly things click into place, and some stick out like a sore thumb. That woman holds herself regally, and wields authority like a whip, and yet, she has never once declared someone lesser than herself. But where would she learn how to walk the way she walks? How could she look anyone in the eye without cringing? Everytime that woman does something Bull finds himself with half his questions answered and five dozen more cropping up.

He wants to snatch her into his arms, to emulate the dancing she has shown Action. But he can’t, if he does, she’ll know he’s spied on her. If he does, he will shatter their peace. Greedy as he is, Solas won’t allow himself to do that yet. Not yet. He would be greedy a little longer, selfish for just another few weeks. Then, maybe, he’d tell her. Show her. Maybe she won’t reject him out of anger and fear. Maybe.

But now, as she lets the music move her, as she sways and dips, as her arms shift like she is a puppet being pulled with strings, he is entranced. Entranced as he always has been by her. Enough he doesn’t worry about their blatant display. Enough he doesn’t worry about what consequences Jayla’s strong will decree will have, and what will become of the servants and mages left within Haven’s walls when she leaves again.

All Solas sees is his Vhenan. His heart. The half that has called to him for months. His now. He is whole when he is in her arms, he feels – it is as if he cannot feel the veil when he is with her. The oppressive lack of magic doesn’t weigh on him. It doesn’t dull him as it dulls so many of the others in the moments they are locked together. And when he drives her hard enough her magic breaks its reigns, he feels like he is home.

Jayla lets herself go through some eight songs and dances before she feels like she can sit still for more than a moment. Her legs are sore, her hips and abdominals protesting now that she has gone from loose Tribal all the way to traditional belly dancing. Oh, the look in Solas’ eyes when she shifted to something he was apparently familiar with.  She wants to show him something else. Give him a dance she hasn’t let see the light of day since she was fifteen years old.

When the music swells around her this time, it isn’t electronic, or particularly varied in instrumentals. This is drums, all drums, from her child hood. This is what she danced to in school in the grass skirts that tickled her ankles, with the shells, flowers and feathers that graced her waist and made her hips look like they were moving at light speed. This is from the days before she’d embraced her body completely, her dark skin, her difference from the other girls in her class.

This is part of her heritage that she let be swept under her love for foreign dances. It comes back to her like she never stopped dancing these dances. As if she still acted as one of the dance leaders. The words leave her lips and the dance starts with the drums.

Solas feels his eyes widen when she begins that dance he’d spied for only moments in her dream some weeks ago. He is more surprised to hear her speak in yet another language he didn’t know. This one clearly her mother’s tongue, and less used than the language she uses to speak to the children in. Even so, he is honored to see her dance the dance of her people. He is fascinated by the way she moves and how it can switch in complexity.

It feels wrong for her to dance alone, and Jayla wishes there were others to move in the forms with her.  There are gentle whispers, giggles of young women, and very abruptly she feels that press of the veil. Nothing sinister, nothing that worries her, and she embraces it. Embraces it as she falls into yet another of the line forms, her hips shifting to hit dramatically side to side on the beat.

She has invited spirits here. He can feel them slide into Haven, so many whispers that mimic her shape. They are dressed as her people no doubt dress, and they dance with her. It is like nothing he has ever seen before. Nothing he would imagine any mage of this era accomplishing.  Though his vhenan is not a mage of this era. She is something all her own. Ethereal voices join hers as she recites words appropriate to this apparent display. It’s hard to enjoy the way her body moves, the way she saunters forward, letting her hands thrust side to side as the beat dictates with her hips moving the whole while. He tries to memorize how she looks.

This is pride. Her heritage something that never leaves her. That is so strong it drives spirits to cross the thin veil and dance with her. He can see some of the Templars, former and still practicing, watching wearily. It’s nothing to trace wards on the ground as he prowls the edges of their firelight again.

A runner had come for Leliana somewhere during the fourth song. The spymistress hadn’t been inclined to watch the young otherworlder. But now, hidden in the shadows as she is, the left hand is pleased she took the opportunity to do so. It’s strange to watch the Herald kneel, to ooze pride as she executes slow movements that lift her out of the dirt. Her language is strange, but it communicates her love of her people, of her past.

The spirits – those are worry some. But they take the forms of children, children the Herald leads in a simple version of her previously more complicated dance. Still, it is gorgeous, and Leliana only worries what this display will do for the unrest already brewing because of Jayla’s choice in lover.  She is so different, so vibrant in her difference, that this woman might actually enact changes that would echo through Thedas. So long as they protected her, kept her alive, this woman very well may come lead the rest of the Age.

Solas had swept Jayla into his arms the moment her spirits had left the training area. His lover didn’t complain, tired, but smiling gently at him. The twin moons shine on them as they make their way back home. Home where the children sleep undisturbed, wards functioning as and alert.

“I have to take a bath before we sleep.” She murmurs the words against his jaw, curling around him the moment they disappear into the trees. The sentence makes his ears twitch with interest. A bath. A bath while the children are asleep and won’t come barreling into their room to interrupt them. It’s happened once this week, Niven and Delphine careening into the bedroom while Solas was hidden under the covers, mouth working over Jayla. It had been an odd half mark before they left the room.

“I can make that happen for you, _vhenan’ara_.” The endearment slides so easily from his lips now. Nothing in him refutes the claim. Jayla is his heart, his heart’s desire – Action’s desire as well. They both love the girl who had fallen from the Breach.

 

Fenris had cut his last estate rebellion short. The estate was likely still flaming, the slaves all safely scattered across Antiva, Rivain, and the Free marches. He, however, has taken the opportunity to track down the Pirate, and secured a place on her ship. The ship that will be picking up the Herald of Andraste and her apparent brood of elven children.

He couldn’t believe such a tale, even from Varric, who tells more truths than he does lies now. Princess, as she’s referred to in the letters, has strong ideals. The latest raven, the one he’d caught just before getting on the damned boat, told how she was making enemies of people by simply stating Elves, Mages, and Templars are all equal. That no Lord or Lady may act as if they are above the laws of Haven. And in Haven no elf was allowed to be beaten or treated as lesser for the shape of their ears.

The former slave hasn’t the foggiest idea what he will do when he meets this legend of a woman, all he knows is that he must meet her. A woman that so drastically wishes to change the world, and yet does so with her words and sheer presence is – he hasn’t got words for that she is. Miraculous, perhaps.

What he sees when he pulls into the port of Highever is a woman no man could mistake for a mage. Her dark skin is on display, Rivaini styled clothing gracing her lithe form, music hanging in the air around her, children seated at her feet as she dances for them. Varric had said she was a dancer long before she became Herald.

The dwarf had failed to mention the woman had been a slave. It steals the breath from Fenris, to see her move in the way so many of his fellows had to please their Masters. She does it brazenly, without a single worry. Her body shifts, stomach moving in a wave as her hips roll. The curtain of dark coiled hair, the trinkets weaved into it – the flawless nature of the skin he can see – she was treasured. Kept. Obedient.

So how was this woman the leader of an organization like the Inquisition? Oh, Varric had not said as much, but Fenris could read between the lines. He had listened to the stories coming out of Ferelden and Orlais. The Herald of Andraste deferred to no one, answered to no one but her own conscience. She was Mercy incarnate, but deadly as well.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Isabella had sauntered over to him while he watched aghast from the ship’s bow as they entered the port. Now that they were docking, she was free to speak with him. “Never seen a woman dance like that and not be completely nude doing it. From the look that elven mage is giving her, she won’t have her clothes on for long when they get their cabin.”

That taunting voice, one Fenris is rather quite fond of, grates at him now. Isabella had no idea how right she was. The women of the Imperium who entertained never did so, so fully clothed. They wore silk, gems, precious metals that barely covered them, all of it made to accentuate their beauty, desirability. Those slaves were the ones that warmed beds and whelped bastards for the Magisters and their ilk. He’s never seen a human in the position.  He says nothing, but keeps his eyes on the woman who ends her dance when a young, pale man with dark hair speaks. He must have pointed out the boat.

Jayla is too preoccupied herding the children up the walkway and onto the boat to notice the beauty of a captain or her new body guard. Not that Jayla knows she has one. But she pauses when barely hidden thighs in honestly wonderful boots block her path.

“Hello sweetthing. I understand that I’ll be taking you and your little ones, along with a man or two, to Llomerryn?”

“Yes.” Jayla answers in an instant without hesitation, straightening up to look at the Captain of the _Siren’s Flight_. She’s a beautiful person. Her hair curls gently, black as night against deep copper skin, her golden jewelry sets off the red undertone to her skin and leave Jayla a little breathless. That the Captain knows to dress to her strengths doesn’t hurt. The cinched waist, white high cut tunic paired with the boots is – distracting, her whole being is distracting, oozing sensuality, intelligence, and confidence. Enough she almost ignores the wicked blades at the woman’s hips. Almost being the key word. “I’m Jayla Shepard, and those twelve ducklings are under my care. I understand you're Captain Isabella? An associate of Varric’s?”

Such formality from the lovely morsel of a woman. Isabella can hardly stand not flirting with the younger woman. This one isn’t out of her twenties yet. But her lips are the kind that beg for kisses, full, plush, a berry color that can’t be natural and yet has to be. Her eyes are that delicious deep dark brown tinged with yellow that reminds Isabella of the fiercest of animals. And her skin – this woman is onyx in the flesh. The sun bounces off her, throws her into sharp relief against the tanned verging on caramel elf who accompanies her.

He’s older, fascinatingly so as Isabella looks between them. The elven man’s eyes are predatory, evaluating. He reminds her just a touch of Zevran in a terrible mood. Just a touch until a mask of polite indifference falls on that face. He’s well built for an elf. Taller than her dear Fenris, his shoulders are wider, but the thighs – those are just as muscular.

“You understand right, sweetthing. Admiral now, however.” Isabella winks, laughing gently at the warmth in the younger woman’s cheeks. And oh, her man doesn’t disappoint. He steps up beside the little Herald, a hand on her hip, his hip pressed the back of hers. These two are a couple, and he is a territorial man. How utterly delicious. She can also see what Varric meant in his little note. Jayla would end up alone, this one has wanderer written all over him.

Flashing a smile, Isabella beckons Fenris over. “Our mutual associate took the liberty of contracting you a body guard for your stay in Llomerryn. This beauty is Fenris. Don’t let his bark scare you, his bite is absolutely shiver inducing.”

Those umber eyes blink rapidly before flicking to Fenris and locking onto him. Isabella isn’t the only one who notices either. Her lips curl when she sees worry and a touch of anger in the older mage’s face.

“A pleasure, Herald.” Fenris croaks the three words stiffly, unsure of what more to do. Her dear friend is always all thumbs with women. Ruffling his hair, she laughs, turning her attention on the mage claiming the Herald, and shooing the children onto the deck, taking him by the hand to pull him up as well.

“Welcome to the _Siren’s Flight_ , handsome. The Storyteller calls you Chuckles, what are the chances I find out why?” She thrust her bosom out, cocking hip as she lets go of his hand, placing it on the now prominent hip.

“Rather high, I imagine, Admiral. I am not a particularly jovial person, and so our esteemed Master Tethras thought it appropriate to give me such a name.” Solas’ reply is borderline terse, eyes darting between the children and the elven man whose ears are pink as Jayla speaks to him. The whelp isn’t worthy of Jayla – a jealous sentiment that catches the wolf off guard.

“So, a body guard? You certainly look capable.” Her head nods toward the great sword, eyes sliding over his armor. He’s handsome, all bronze toned, those odd markings bright against his skin, the white hair creating further contrast and his eyes – they’re as piercing as Solas’. “But, my name is Jayla, not Herald. If you’re sticking around, you’d best get used to how it rolls off your tongue, I don’t answer to Herald.”

She’s flirting. It makes her pause, confused and a little bewildered. Flirting is harmless, but she doesn’t flirt just randomly. Solas – that’s a different story. She’s only known Fenris four seconds!

“As you say, my Lady.” His lips curl and she suppresses a shiver when he speaks. His voice does different things to her than Solas’ does. His is a rumble, but Solas’ is a growl in her favorite moments. Her eyes slide to her lover, only to find him staring at them. It prompts Jayla to move up the last bit of ramp and hop down to the deck. Or attempt it anyway. She trips, grace leaving her in the blink of an eye, and nearly falls flat on her face were it not for gauntlet covered hands and arms catching her around the middle.

“Perhaps Varric was right to contract me. It would seem when you aren’t dancing, you’re prone to finding trouble.” A dark brow ticks and green eyes sparkle. Jayla’s face feels like it’s on fire as she hastily extracts herself from the man’s grasp.

“That usually doesn’t happen. I mean, I find trouble, but I doubt I’ll be finding any where we’re headed.” She swallows, arms crossing as if to create a barrier between them. Her eyes refuse to meet Fenris’, solidifying the notion in his mind, that she is a former slave just as he is.

“I meant no offense. I’ve heard you are deadly, with your blades and unconventional with your magic.” The word magic makes him wince. He’s come far since his time with Hawke, and it is mostly thanks to that woman he’s come anywhere at all, but still, mages place him on guard.

“Hardly.” She shakes her head, face draining of color and her eyes meet his. “I am no assassin, and I don’t enjoy the killing I do. I – should settle the children. Thank you for agreeing to be a guard for us, Ser.”

He’d overstepped, and he slaps himself for it. Watching her silently turn on her heal, retreating to her lover, an older lover, one with no kindness for Fenris it would seem, has him fascinated. She favors elves. All the children she’d brought on board are elven, her lover is elven. For one horrifying moment, he wonders if she is a fetishist, but quickly shakes away the idea. No. She is likely more comfortable with elves as most slaves within the Imperium, at least those in positions like the one Jayla must have held, are elven.

“Fenris will show you and yours to your cabins Lady Herald. I’ll get us underway, no point in stalling, the tide will be with us in an hour. Get your little ones stowed away, I doubt you’ll want to miss us leaving port, sweetthing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're edging ever closer to the end of this half of Jayla's story! Edging closer to Redcliffe and then Haven. Oh my, I didn't think I'd ever make it this far. And look at our little dancer, growing up, getting relationships, flirting and being flustered because another cute boy is around. It's got the makings of a telenovella.
> 
> I promise it won't be a telenovella. So long as Solas keeps his head out of his but we'll all stay happy.


	30. Classes, Talks, and Adoption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot is going on in this chapter. I just didn't want to break it up. Didn't seem right to.

Fenris watches the young human woman with her elven wards. She treats them as a mother would, kindness and grace oozing from her. It baffles him, how this human can be so utterly adjusted to life outside Tevinter, outside captivity. He can’t find any obvious signs. She doesn’t shy away when her lover hovers quietly beside her, nor when Isabella sidles up to them silently only to let her voice boom around her moments later. There is no cowering fear, no panic in her eyes.

He can’t make sense of it. He saw the dance. He sees the way she looks at him and looks away. She does it with the other male too. Sometimes to Isabella. Though, the ‘Admiral’ less so. Far less. The male elf – Solas wasn’t it? Solas – he watches Fenris. The bronze elf doesn’t have to look at him to know that. The weight of his stare is enough.

Usually Fenris would avert his gaze, would find something, someone else, to occupy his musings. But this Jayla, she is a mystery. One he desperately wants to unravel. It doesn’t help the woman is the antithesis of what most humans are. Most nobles, if what Isabella garnered from Varric is true. Rivaini, one of the Seers, her memory lost, apparently ‘spirited out of Dairsmuid’ during the annulment.

Fenris wasn’t even in the country and he knows the Dairsmuid annulment was little better than a slaughter. Just a scant year or two ago – Fenris would have applauded the death of so many mages. But Hawke, she opened his eyes. Anders, Merrill, the Magisters, they are the minority of Thedas. People like Jayla, like Solas, like Hawke, they are the majority. He saw what occurred in the bowels of the Gallows. How fear pushed even the strongest of mages to their breaking points.

To say that was a traumatic experience for him would be an understatement. To say it did not also open his eyes – would be a lie. Meredith, her madness, that opened his eyes as well. A pity it did not further open the eyes of the Commander. Varric’s written about the way Rutherford and the Herald butt heads. It’s fascinating. The man had seemed to be at a turning point.

“You’re awfully dour, sweetling. Should I get my cabin boy to bring up the oils? I’d love to see you glistening in the moonlight.” That velvet voice makes his ears twitch, green eyes sliding to the Pirate. He liked Isabella. She is wild, untamable. Everything he’d like to someday count himself as. She pulled no punches, and made few apologies for her ways. It had been what drew him to her after his disaster of an attempt at a relationship with Hawke. Hawke who had turned to the abomination and gone so far as to save the gnat of a man’s life.

“Am I not always brooding? I’m sure Varric would say as much.” His lips curl into a momentary smirk. Answering and yet avoiding Isabella’s silent question. He didn’t feel like a tumble, nor was he going to tell the woman he was fascinated with one who is very clearly saddled with a happy life. As happy as it can be with the sky rent in two, Fade leaking into the waking world, causing more tears to appear.

“You’re no fun anymore, Fenris. You went off and became a slave rebellion leader and now you’re all uptight.” Her plush lips push into a pout, one that makes his eyes roll so hard he’s surprised they stay in his head.

“Say it a little louder, why don’t you? I’m sure none of your men would sell us out for a good bag of gold.” Irritation leaks into his words, and he faces Isabella properly. The woman was a good friend, but she trusts her crew too much. She might have rules, but they were lacking in places.

Solas’ ears twitch. The captain’s voice is not quiet, and the wind is in his favor. The guard, he plays at being a rebellion leader then. His eyes sweep over the youth – and the man is a youth. He can’t yet be thirty if Solas is able to gauge things correctly. Which, after assuming Jayla was older than twenty-two, he isn’t so sure of anymore.

His markings are crude, and cruel. Lyrium folded into the skin, seared into the body – it was something that the empire employed as a punishment. Something that happened to slaves who had outlived all their uses. It gave them a way out of the hunts – to become a living lyrium well, a living foci of sorts. He hated the practice, and was enraged to see it still lived on.

But, the boy could be of use to him. A man willing to return to a place that had clearly traumatized him to free others – that is a man of conviction. The type Solas needs at his side to put his plans in motion.

Yet, Solas is hesitant to approach the ivory haired elf. There is a brittleness to him, one that hides in his eyes, and the way he looks at Jayla does not endear Solas to him. The wolf in him only sees him as a threat. Younger, capable in different ways than he currently is, more eager to prove how much of a provider he could be – that is what the wolf sees. The man sees another man entranced by a woman who is a puzzle. A woman who provides a challenge, who is new, and defies all preconceived notions.

Solas isn’t about to let Fenris attempt to solve the puzzle that is Jayla. But, part of him, a traitorous part that knows he will leave this glorious woman he stands besides, wonders if he might not make this easier by simply pushing them together. The peace that he finds with Jayla, the joy he grasps while in her arms – it’s all fleeting. He can’t keep her, can’t have her by his side when his plans come to fruition.

For all that Jayla advocates for the Elves, he cannot see her willingly walk to her death. The thought make his face twist in distress, eyes sliding over his beautiful ebony love. He knows he will lose her, but he can’t bear the idea of giving her up before he has to. This woman who wields daggers and magic at close range so she may see and never forget the lives she takes. Who plays with children not of her womb, and mothers them as if they were humans.

“You’re doing it again.” Her soft rich alto reaches his ears, and storm blue eyes lift to find her dark ones studying him. There is a warmth in her, directed only at him, specifically aimed at him, that still shocks him. The way her mouth curves so softly, that is also just for him and floors him each time he sees it. “You’re a million miles away, and look as if you are contemplating the death of the world. What do I have to do to make you less grim, _Ipo?_ ”

He focuses on the present, on her, smiling gently. She never hesitates to tell him when he is being unreasonable, or letting his thoughts get away with him. “You will simply have to distract me, Jayla.”

Reaching for her, he is surprised when she dances half a step back. It has his head tilting, eyes narrowing. Surely, she wasn’t putting him aside already? For the whel-

“I – er. We can’t.” It’s the first time he’s ever seen Jayla hesitant. It has his jealousy taking a backseat to curiosity. He waits silently and she doesn’t keep him waiting long.

“My, hm. What do you call it here? My course came. Finally.” Ah. He still doesn’t quite understand her hesitation. Her willingness to buck convention is something or legend, and yet she would keep this from allowing them intimacy? His head shakes and.

“Does this mean I am relegated to only holding you until it is completed its purpose?”

Her face goes crimson, the first time he’s seen such color take over her skin. Solas finds he likes the look on her.  He wonders what he must do to get her to become that red while they are coupling. “Y-yes. I mean. I didn’t think you’d want to. I’m all crampy, and the blood, and and – doesn’t it hurt?”

Another first. Jayla being unsure, Jayla not knowing something about her own body. Solas bites his lip to keep from leering at his little woman. Oh, the things he can teach her. Reaching for her again, drawing her flush to his front when she allows herself to be caught, he presses a kiss to her forehead.

“It needn’t. Has no one told you orgasms make your moon blood less painful? Surely your people were advanced enough to know that.” Dropping his voice to a whisper, he alludes to Earth. “But, if you are not comfortable with such explorations, ma’vhenan, we can simply lie in one another’s arms as we have in the past. I am not with you only for the sex.”

He wouldn’t push such an act on her. While for him, it was barely an issue, her reluctance to even mention her monthly has him thinking perhaps her culture was not so open as he’d assumed. His hands slide soothingly up and down her back, and he lets a tendril of his magic soothe her aches. He is surprised when he notes the strength of her pain, immediately allowing more magic to flow into her.

The magic is a welcome respite. She’d been intending to speak with Isabella, having only the rags from their first aid kits to work with to fashion a pad. The lack of Midol in this world was already going to be an issue, Jayla just knows it. But, for Solas to so brazenly speak about sex, about orgasms while she’s bleeding. It’s. She didn’t. She doesn’t know how to absorb that properly. So, his magic is a good distraction.

It feels so nice a soft sigh leaves her, and she leans her head against his chest, her arms coming to loop loosely around him. “I – wasn’t aware, no. No one really went over that in our classes.”

Solas feels himself blink, eyes going wide at her words. Classes? Her people had classes on – sex? He can’t imagine that, mind immediately conjuring a scenario of Chantry sisters explaining sexual organs and sexuality to a group of children, closely followed by a Ha’hren attempting the same with a wild group of elven children. But, those classes, it occurs to Solas – he’s never asked Jayla a fair few important questions.

“Perhaps we should retire to our room, so we might speak freely?” She wordlessly nods, and shifts so he might lead her below the decks; which he does quite happily, a hand laid possessively on the small of her back.

It is strange to him, to be so open with himself among people he doesn’t know. Months – no weeks- ago, before they began to share dreams and tents, Solas would not ever think of being this familiar where anyone could see it. Yes, he’d carried the Herald several times, but those were extenuating circumstances. To claim a spot, this role in her life like this, it’s dangerous. He hates that it’s dangerous but it is. He will never forget that fact either. No matter how much he would like to cast it from his mind, he cannot.

The walk down below decks doesn’t go unnoticed. He spies the Bodyguard and Captain watching them. Both with more interest in their eyes than he is comfortable with. The Rivaini woman, she’s quite bold, and far too sharp for her own good. He can see how she became a part of Varric’s colorful network of people. The boy – a Southern Tevinter, perhaps Nevarran, if he could put a region to the traces of  accent – he is far too interested in Jayla. It raises the elder elf’s hackles.

But soon enough the couple is under the decks and on their way to their room. A quick pause shows the children crowded into their room and sleeping soundly. Wards traced onto the door again, they shut it and more just a meter down the hall to their quarters. The door there is also warded against unwanted listeners or visitors.

“Now, you’ve my curiosity thoroughly piqued, da’asha. Your people give classes on such matters?” He would start with what was easiest for her to talk about, and then move onto what had her attempting to deny herself a less painful menses.

“Yes.” Her brows raise a moment and her head tilts. “And this place clearly doesn’t. So. Okay. We’re shown how the body works, how the inside of us looks. Most of it is done in Biology class, which is the study of living things.” Score look at her go, her teachers would be damn proud she remembered any of this shit. “But sexual organs, or things considered sexual organs – like breasts – are more often covered in a “Health” class. They don’t call it sex ed anymore, not sure why.”

Her hands wring as she speaks and Solas finds her discomfort strange. Jayla is a whirlwind, tackling things through will and sheer desire to get things done. He’s seen the woman gut and dress goats without flinching but this has her uncomfortable. “Do go on, da’asha.”

“Right. So, as we know it, Men produce sperm basically on demand, less and less if the demand is high in a short period of time. Men determine the sex of the child, because they have two different chromosomes x and y while women only have two x’s. Both partners can carry sexually transmitted diseases and not know it. I had a friend, she is a herpes carrier, we fooled around once before she found out and she absolutely freaked out over it. I got tested to make sure I didn’t have it and then she calmed down. But, I’m like all over the place with this.

Me on my period – er – moon blood? This is the safest time for us to have sex, even though it’s the least likely time either of us would want to have sex. My body is shedding unused uterine lining that would have become eventually become placenta and supported a child had any of your swimmers gotten to my egg in time.” Her face is on fire and Solas finds it endearing. The concepts aren’t entirely foreign to him, but some are new. That he and his were the ones to determine sex of the child was entirely new information. Fascinating as well. It made him smirk as he thought of all the monarchs who displaced perfectly lovely wives all because they could not give a son to the succession line.

“So okay about the whole period- shit – moon blood. I’m at my most sensitive because I’m losing blood. Or is it because I’m at my lowest hormone spot? It’s one of the two and while that generally seems like awesome, it’s during the period of time where I am at my most disgusting. So that’s why I’m not really jumping to jump on you, if you are picking up what I’m putting down.” She looks hopeful but the hope sputters and dies when Solas merely raises his eyebrows.

“Why do you feel shame over this?” It’s a valid question. Solas has been watching her this whole time, he picked up on the way she would not look him in the eye for more than a few moments, the way her hands wring together, how her face stays flushed. Everything about her body language says she is uncomfortable, ashamed, and he can’t make sense of it. “That you’re bleeding is good. It means your body is working as it is meant to. This is part of life, and you are not disgusting, Jayla. Far, far from it.”

He moves to embrace her slowly and Jayla watches him like a deer caught in headlights. He didn’t think her bleeding from her lady bits was gross? He didn’t even seem phased! Those arms – deceptive in their strength – wrap around her smaller form and she leans into his warmth. This is – enlightening. She’s not sure she’s ready to throw down with him like this but it is very nice to know she isn’t repulsive. That he still desires her even when he knows she’s out of commission. Though technically she’s not. Ugh. Social bullshit always did make her twitchy.

She flips over Solas’ statement on the deck. Orgasms make her period more comfortable. That was something she’d never have thought to explore or even think about back home. Her face presses against his sternum as she absorbs his words. Maybe…on a really light day she’d let him explore with her. Today. Jesus, it was like the part of the red sea and she really should speak with Isabella to see how to deal with this properly.

“I won’t say we won’t get up to the very lovely and satisfying sex that we’ve established and equally satisfying routine for, but tonight – I think I’d rather cuddle and use you as a heating blanket.”

“Then that is what we shall do, da’asha. I enjoy having you in my arms whichever way you will allow.” His nose ruffles her dreads and makes her giggle against his chest. Solas is a good boyfriend, regardless of his brooding nature and serious countenance. Jayla loves him.

Fuck. What? Her eyes fling open and she feels her breath catch. Love? Like the serious kind? No. It’s been what? Almost half a year. Shit. No. It takes longer than that to be all big L with a person. She doesn’t even know his favorite color.

Just that he hates tea. That he’s skin starved. That he loves to teach but has a terrible temper. That he hides behind politeness. That he will never turn down braised rabbit on top of a salty porridge but is beside himself when anyone finds sweets to share around. He prefers wine to Ale and eats without getting crumbs anywhere. His eyes light up when you ask him about the Fade, about the practical applications of magic and, and -

God fucking damn it!

 

Jay steals away to the deck no long after her little epiphany. Love. No way. Love was for people who weren’t mired in responsibility. But they have kids. Together. They live. Together. The heels of her hands press into her eyes as she leans against the ship rail.

“You look twisted up over something, sweet thing. Tell old Isabella all about it.” A hand settles between her shoulder blades. It’s a platonic, safe place to touch a person, but still, it makes Jayla twitch, a hand going for blades she didn’t have on.

“Good instincts, sweet thing.” A wicked smile forms on Isabella’s mouth. “So, what has you up here looking like this, when you should be with your charming older man, preferably making yourselves go hoarse?”

Jay snorts through her nose and settles her arms on the rail, staring out over the relatively calm waters. “A couple things. One, this is the first time I’ve bled since I lost my memory, and I can’t for the life of me remember how to deal with it. Two, I might love that man, and we don’t have a single hope for a future together.”

The pirate captain blinks, studying the young woman critically. The first problem is an easy fix. Get her some of the proper rags and make sure she has some lye soap to clean them with. Also, she needs the tea. There is nothing worse than bringing a child into a relationship that is doomed, and this one already has twelve to think about.

“All right, Precious. That’s quite a problem. Why do you think there’s no hope for the pair of you?” While Isabella doesn’t personally believe in attachments, she won’t sabotage a woman who does. It’s a disgusting low thing to do, and Isabella will sink into the much, but she won’t sink that far.

“He’s a wanderer. He’s said as much. A mage who studies the fade, who seeks out history. I’m a fucking trumped up ‘Herald’ a religious puppet. They won’t ever let me go. So, when we do what we’ve got to do – how can I keep him caged? Solas – he doesn’t belong in four walls under a roof.” Jayla’s voice is low and resigned. It makes Isabella stop and look at her again. This little noble girl, and she is noble, her face is clear of blemishes, her teeth are so white they almost glow, would let her lover leave her. All because she knows him to need the wide-open space of Thedas around him to be happy. That is not something the Admiral would ever expect to hear out of any noble woman, Herald of Andraste or not.

“Perhaps your Solas will stay with you. You don’t know for sure that he’ll just up and leave, Precious.” The careful way Isabella speaks betrays the fact she doesn’t play this role. Comforting someone, attempting to reassure them of their relationship – that isn’t her. Hopefully the younger woman appreciates that.

“Maybe he will. But, I doubt it. And not only that, if we both make it through this alive, we’re in the honeymoon period. We’re too strong willed to bend for the other. He’s got a quick temper and mine is even quicker. We’re a disaster waiting to happen, but I fell for that damned man.” She sighs, and lets her head fall with a ‘thunk’ sound against the wooden rail.

“You’d think I’d know better. That if I’m aware enough to know we’ll be a train wreck, I should have just – avoided this.”

“The heart wants what it wants, Precious. Anyone will tell you that. The body wants what it wants too. I can’t say I’m the one you should speak to about this, if Varric’s told you about me at all, you’ll know I’m a woman who takes what she wants and moves on with life. But, once, I wasn’t. I cared quite a lot for a man I count as a dear friend, care for him still if I’m to be truly honest. He freed me from a cage. I’ll never be able to repay him.”

“That’s…” Jayla sighs, twists her head to look at Isabella. “Thank you, for listening. I know you don’t know me from Eve, and that you’ve got your own problems, and you don’t subscribe to relationships, but I appreciate your efforts to help. It – I don’t know how this end, and honestly, I’m terrified that when I finally round up enough people to help me seal the breach that I’m going to die. And if I don’t? What then? Eventually our paths are going to split. I know my history. I know how this story goes. People like me do not get the guy and a happy ending.”

“You,” Isabella blinks at the woman and bites her lip to keep from laughing. If only she weren’t already entangled with someone, she’d be perfect for Fenris. They could brood together. “Try not to be so fatalistic, sweet thing. You won’t know what will happen until you survive. But until that moment – live like you’re going to die. Don’t go to the Breach with regrets. You love him – have him. Don’t worry about the later, worry about the now. Enjoy his kisses, the slide of his hand up your thigh. Live in this moment, not some far flung future that isn’t certain.”

Jayla looks at her, lifts her head up and looks at the Pirate. There was that intelligence that was overshadowed by the woman’s sultry façade. She’d been right. Her lips curl into a bright smile. “Thank you. You know – if you need some regular work, stuff that pays well, I’m betting the Inquisition could find you that work.”

Wasn’t this one just like Ava. Ava Hawke gobbled up strays like it was second nature to her. This one does the same. Isabella doesn’t even flinch, but smiles wider. “I’ll talk to your Spy Master, Nightingale, isn’t it? She had dealings with Hawke, that bridge hasn’t yet burnt either. You’ll see more of me, Precious.”

Sharp amber eyes light on Fenris the moment he emerges from below decks. Without his armor on he looks younger, more approachable. While the pirate supported Jayla, her relationship, sort of at least, it didn’t hurt for the older man to have some healthy competition. She clasps the younger woman’s shoulder and saunters away without a word.

He spots her the moment Isabella, all gold and copper in the moonlight, moves away from her. In this light, she is ethereal. Her hair shines in the night, arms and legs exposed by her Rivaini styled clothing. It reminds him of clothing he saw in Seheron, the warmer climate dictating lighter clothing, with more skin on display. The wrap dress, well it fits the bill, and suits her.

“Oh, Fenris.” Her voice is laced with surprise, but she isn’t telling him to leave either. Which, he hopes is a good sign. He wasn’t – isn’t – the best with social interaction still. But she – he has to know how she can live as a normal person. It will drive him mad if he doesn’t learn her secret.

“My lady.” He inclines his head and notes how her lips twist in displeasure. Just like Ava. Ava hated when people treated her like someone important. “May I join you?”

Umber eyes blink, moonlight showing the amber color that streaks through the deep brown in the darkness. Her hand flutters, indicating he could join her at the rail. He moves, feet silent on the deck, head tilting when a gust of sea air hits him.

“I understand you are from Rivain?” His words are stilted, as if he can’t figure the right words out to start the conversation. It’s the truth. Fenris has no idea how to broach the subject of her past with her.

“Yes. That’s what I’m told. There was documentation of the Divine wanting to see me. For me to report what happened at Dairsmuid.” Her words flow easily. If he weren’t so aware of how much of a lie it is, he’d believe it.

“You needn’t lie.” The words are sharper than he’d like, but then, he is always a touch sharper than is advisable.

“And what makes you think that I’m lying.” Now she turns to him, eyes finding his, a hand on her hip.

“Dairsmuid annulment is infamous. No one made it out alive. Most of the Templars died, especially the young ones.” He recounts the multiple rumors and reports that had flooded the free marches in the days after. It had been a slaughter from all sides. The survivors crazed, and all templars. He’d not encountered any of them, but those stories reached him as well.

“Ah. Well then. I can’t tell you anything. I don’t remember why I was at the conclave, just that I was. I am Rivaini, I was in a circle, thus my return to have my tattoos and piercings completed. Or started, it depends on who you talk to.” Her smile is a touch on the mischievous side, so much so he echoes it without a thought.

“Would that I had, had a choice in my decoration, I would have perhaps put a great deal of thought into it. As no doubt, you have done.” Bitterness colors his tone, unbidden and it makes Fenris grimace. He didn’t intend to bring himself into this. However, it could prove to be a segue into the questions he truly wanted to ask her.

He watches as those dark eyes study him. He almost wants to puff up, to make himself look a touch taller than his customary hunch indicates. He refrains, because this woman is taken. She has someone in her life and he helps her raise children. Or will be at least. Still, a thrill of pride runs through him as her eyes take in his arms, face, and neck.

“Those aren’t tattoos, are they? They aren’t brands either, they – they sing.” Her brows furrow and her head tilts, a cascade of her hair moving with her.

“They are lyrium brands.” He lifts his arms, eyeing the grotesque – to his mind – raise bands of silver lyrium that line his skin.

He is surprised to see her take a step away from him. Most mages immediately tried to touch them. For her to move away.

“How did they prevent an overdose? Why would you want those? Lyrium – you don’t do magic, do you?” She’s been listening, evident once more in her garnered knowledge. Lyrium is a drug that Templars are addicted to. A tidbit Cassandra had given her. It helps mages enter the fade, and it can kill if you’ve never had it and partake of too much. It sounded eerily like Cocaine, Heroin or any other hard narcotic from Earth.

“I do not know.”

“Oh. But.” Her teeth dig into her lip and she turns toward the sea again. Fenris know she’d like to ask more, can see it in her face. Instead of prompting her to ask, he takes the opportunity to ask his own questions.

“When were you freed?”

“What?” Her head whips toward him, eyes wide and face slack with shock. She hadn’t thought anyone would notice, more than likely. Hadn’t thought anyone in the south would know her dancing for what it is.

“Your dancing – it is a mark of sorts. I have seen it before, in Tevinter.” He speaks haltingly, carefully, watching as horror colors her face. Suddenly he isn’t so sure about his earlier assessment.

“I – “Jayla’s mind is a whirlwind. Tribal dancing here – was for slaves? Her stomach turns and flips in discomfort. She’d labeled herself a slave. Without even knowing it – and now. Fuck.

“My mother’s mother taught her to dance, and my mother taught me.” She speaks in a daze, tongue heavy and words dull. It was as good a response as any. Certainly no one would question it. Her skin is dark, not russet bronze like Fenris’ but it’s fairly clear she’s of Northern descent by the logic of Thedas. And now – because she couldn’t, because she’d decided to scandalize people, because she rekindled a love for that genre of dance. Her head hurts all over again.

“I did not mean to distress you. I saw you, when we pulled into port. It. It reminded me of my own sordid origins. I suppose I wished to connect with another runaway, one who is – or seemed to be, quite well acclimated to freedom.” His voice washes over her like warm bathwater closing over her head. It takes the Herald a moment to hear him.

“I’m sorry. I haven’t had anyone pin my heritage as such. Southerners aren’t. They don’t know. Those that do – well they don’t say anything.” When did lying become so easy here? “You ran?”

“Yes. Several times. I had to kill the man who claimed the title Master to keep my freedom.”

She walks away from her conversation with Fenris in a daze, confused, upset on his behalf, and wondering what sort of damage control this would mean for Josephine.

 

When the ship pulls into the Llomerryn port, the children scramble from the boat as if sharks nipped at their heels. It makes Jayla laugh, their trunks floating behind her. Here – magic is not persecuted, at least not from what she’s read and heard. She saw no reason to hide it. Solas walks at her side, a fond smile on his lips. It had been a long several days for them all.  None of them were used to being cooped up in such close quarters.

“Mamae! It smells of salt here.” Niven scowls at her from the end of the gang plank, as if salt had personally offended him. The seven-year-old had claimed her as his mother quicker than any of the other elder children. It still surprises her how quickly he’d clung to her.

“We are on an island, _kaʻu keiki,_ and surrounded by the sea, of course the air smells of salt here.” Her hands ruffle unruly brown locks as she walks down to meet him. Solas chuckles beside her, his hand brushing over her backside before settling at his side again. Fenris is not far behind them, but far enough he doesn’t have to deal with the floating trunks or the gaggle of children. They seemingly made him nervous, but neither Solas nor Jayla could figure out if it was nerves or the desire to be away from small magic users.

“Shepard.” An elderly woman approaches them on the dock, and she is regal. Her hair is white, curls a touch frizzy, but gorgeous, piled on top of her head with decorative leathers holding it all together. Jayla felt her breath still in her lungs. There was something _more_ to this woman, whose skin is taken from what must be a copper not unlike Isabella’s to a deep mahogany. This woman whose hair tells you her age is advanced, who has crow’s feet but eyes sharper than even Leliana’s. Something coils around this woman, and Jayla can’t see the lush green of the grass that spreads behind her, she can’t hear the waves that gently splash against the bright sand of the beach beneath the port.

“Yes. Yes, the girl so far away.” The voice has the quaver of age, but it’s strong yet. The words snap Jayla from her trance and she sucks in a breath, finding her lungs straining. Solas lays a hand against her shoulder in question, she sends him a look of reassurance.

“I’m honored that the Elders of Llomerryn agreed to host myself and my family. I will never be able to repay such a kindness.” Her head dips, and the older woman laughs jovially.

“Such manners! Come, child, bring your patchwork family. We’ve much work to do and you’ve so little time to do all that you must.” Her hand waves the young woman and children forward, and Jayla goes, the children all following after her. Solas and Fenris stay silent, waiting invitation, unwilling to trespass where they aren’t wanted.

“Tell your men to come to, girl. They got things to be doing and no time to waste.”

 

The walk to the village is a beautiful one, and Jayla’s magic never wanes once. Something their guide notices but does not react to. She does however, bid the children call her Auntie, and gives them sweets that had resided in a pouch tied to her hip.

“You dress your children well, Jayla.” It is the first time since they started walking the Elder has addressed the young woman from Earth. She starts, eyes ripped from the lush trees and wildflowers back to her guide.

“Thank you.” She hadn’t known what was ‘proper’ Rivaini fashion, so she had gone ahead with simple designs meant to be easy for the warm weather. Rompers for the girls, three a piece, in colors that would make them stand out if they became separated. The boys had shorts, and light tops that button up the front. They are not at all designs she would find in Thedas, but they are serviceable and practical. That was all Jayla truly cared about. That the children were clothed and looked presentable. “I wanted them to be comfortable and not look like urchins who went uncared for.”

“You’re a better woman than most.” Those sharp eyes – hazel eyes that almost glow – land on her, and a weathered mouth turns up in a smile. “Most of the Southerners wouldn’t take on children not their own, and here you are with twelve not of your own race.”

“Race has nothing to do with making sure children are cared for.” Jayla’s reply is sharp and it makes the elder woman’s smile widen.

“Oh, they were right about you, girl. Gon’change the world you are.” Umber eyes widen, confusion written on Jayla’s face.

“You forget the Rivaini are Seers girl. You’re of northern blood, don’t matter where you came from before, you’re ours now.” A hand clasps her own and a flow of magic that makes Jayla’s skin prickle settles over the pair. She felt – connected. Just like when she dances. The connection is there, to this woman.

“My name is, Revika. And you’re Jayla. Jayla of Lloymerran, Shepard of a new era.” The declaration makes Solas’ ears twitch. The Elder was adopting the Herald? Or perhaps something had been seen about Jayla’s future, something important.

“I – Thank you.” Jayla’s soft voice is full of emotion. It makes Solas’ heartache. He’d known she felt out of place at times, had an inkling if he was being truthful, but he thought she had accepted the cabin as home. Their home. Perhaps she had. But the acceptance, the relief in her voice right then. It east at him.

“Your man, he’s got a lot of hurts in him. A lot of guilt.” She says it quietly, enough Solas can’t hear what’s being said. “You think you’ll be left. Only way you end up alone is if _you_ walk away. You’ll know when the time comes, when the choice is laid out in front of you. Walk the right path.”

“But – what is the right path?”

“Whatever your heart tells you, girl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ka'u keiki - my boy


	31. Parallels and Challenges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seer's see things and generally freak out Jayla. Solas talks to Fenris and is dumb. Jayla thinks a lot.

It wasn’t until Revika had declared her part of the Rivaini that Jayla even realized how adrift she’d been. Yes, she clings to her own culture, her heritage and history, but here – all she had was the children. What could she give them? There wasn’t a damn thing but food and clothing.

Ballet has to be from somewhere, an equivalent, like there is for tribal dancing – but should she even give them those things? Tribal dancing would label them as targets for slavers, label them runaways. Ballet – she hopes it wouldn’t label them as anything but talented but that is so rarely the case here. Everything means _something_. It makes her miss Earth at times, before she realizes there, her little band of ducklings wouldn’t be hers. Solas wouldn’t be with her. She’d still be a three job nobody, stripping and go-go dancing every night that she didn’t feel like death. Practicing in the scant hours she could manage between sleep and her legitimate day job that she could tell her parents about.

The village of Revika’s it’s – idyllic. Something from the history of her people. Thatched rooves, sturdy wooden bodies, children everywhere, women and men tattooed and bare, gardens between some of the houses, pens between a few of the others. She could see these things being part of Polynesian history, before the islands were colonized, before they were ripped from the people who inhabited them. She is swept up in the life from the moment she enters the village.

Revika had taken her to her home, thrust ‘appropriate’ adornments at her and told her to change. She’d thought Isabella had dressed provocatively for the fun of it. Now she knows it is a cultural hold over. While these clothes, the linen skirt that settles at her knees, the bandeau top that puts more emphases on what breasts she does have rather than down playing them, aren’t provocative by her standards, the way Solas and Fenris look at her says they are by Thedosian standards.

Solas’ looks she can handle, Fenris makes her want to run for cover. He’s too raw, too open, too young for her to deal with. Solas – he is mystery, he keeps so much of himself to himself still. Fenris – she’s known him less than a week and she is certain the man is an open book. His grunts and brooding come in different flavors and she’s fast learning them all.

Right now, with pink tipped ears and his eyes firmly on anything but her? Discomfort and attraction. He feels he shouldn’t feel for her, and she’s fine with that. She’s with Solas, and Solas is none too pleased the younger man took interest in her at all. She’s not blind, and they are not subtle. Solas especially is not as subtle as he thinks he is with cutting glares and a far more demonstrative nature than she’s ever known him to have surfacing.

“That man of yours. You watch him. You save him from himself.” One of the Elders, of which there are several in this village who make up the governing body, has approached her again. They all have been, lingering touches to her face and deep piercing looks into her eyes. It’s unnerving, but somehow not at all upsetting. It reminds her a bit of her grandmother on her Father’s side. Or Great grandma on her mother’s side. The one who was all Tahitian, rather than the one that was all Black. But even then…

“I – I’ll try.” Her answer is soft, and she looks up from where she and the other girls, her littles, are helping to make the evening meal. It’s a complicated process, but she’s not mad at all. The spices, the scents, it makes her think of home like no one could possibly believe. Sweet, spicy, tart. It’s all here and Jayla hasn’t been this excited for food in months. No stew tonight, no porridge tomorrow morning. Praise the gods, the ancestors, the Earth underneath them – they were going to have _serious_ food.

“Hey little sister, you look happy here, but there’s sadness in you still.” A girl about her age sidles up to her, and Jayla has to stop herself from parroting little back at the woman. She can’t be out of her teens yet, no way.

“I miss my home.”

“This is your home. Those little ones are your home. That pale, _maikai ke kanaka_? He is your home too.”

Her eyes become saucers. Hawaiian! Her language, her father’s language. It’s here. She feels joy like she hadn’t thought possible flow through her, coiling in her chest. A people like her people. A people that could be hers.

“Told you, this is your home, little sister.” The girl grins, wide and pleased at the look on Jayla’s face. The joy is palpable in the air, the other woman, this ‘Herald’s’ aura swelling as joy takes hold. All the older women feel it, and speak amongst themselves. When the Inquisition had reached out, told the various Elders of a woman who had been ‘torn from Rivain and placed in a Circle’ the questions had started to fly. The highest Elders had convened with spirits, and when they learned what they needed, the visions started. Snippets, little things.

But this woman was theirs. Theirs to teach and theirs to harbor when she was finally freed from her gilded cage of duty. When her man completed his great work, she would come back here. They’d seen it. Though, not all things seen come to pass, this one was a great hope. They needed her, the world needed her. _He_ needed her hale and whole.

 

“Fenris.” Solas didn’t enjoy what he was about to do. To mix his business with Jayla’s was – distasteful. However, needs must. He had been neglecting his work for weeks. In the Hinterlands when he had moments to himself, he had made connections, among Leliana’s scouts, he now had people. But this one, this youth who dared look at his ma- at the Herald like he did. Solas doesn’t want him near her but at the same time…

“Solas.” The greeting is terse, but the elder man doesn’t let it deter him. He takes a seat beside the younger and looks out over the children who have made fast friends with the others that inhabit the village. It makes his heart feel light to see the children make friends so easily here, where the obvious bias and racism of the south and west isn’t a staple of this culture.

“No doubt you’ve heard whispers, rumors of a group?” He detested running around bushes for this sort of thing. Best to be blunt, and if need be silence the man later to keep Jayla from learning of his organization, his identity. “One that has plans for the Elves of Thedas.”

Green eyes slide to him, distrust in them. No matter, he could prove the worthiness of his cause, of the Agents of Fen’Harel. An awful name, but it has worked, it saved Felassan’s life, though he had failed rather spectacularly.

“Perhaps. Am I to take it you are a part of such a group?” The faintest hint of something southern lies under that Tevinter accent. Solas would so like to know where it is this boy truly hailed from.

“I am.”

“And what does your Herald think of this affiliation.” Right to that then. Solas is well versed in keeping his emotions from his face, something that only Jayla seems to be able to dismantle in him. He shrugs, leaning back slightly on the rustic seat and eyeing the younger man.

“She does not know. I have yet to find the moment to reveal such an affiliation to her.”

Disgust colors Fenris’ face, and that alabaster topped head shakes. Solas feels annoyance well inside him. What does it matter if he told Jayla or not? Ultimately, their duties went hand in hand. She would repair his blunder, and perhaps, if he could regain his power, he could save her before he tore the veil from the world and fade. That this whelp would judge him – it rankles.

“You would lie to the woman who cares for children she counts as yours and her own?”

“We do what we must in times of great upheaval. Do you not risk everything to save those who were chained like you?”

Fenris grinds his teeth together. This man who sits beside him would dare? Did he not know the truth of his own woman’s origins? He would very much like to throttle the ignorant elder, but stills himself.

“I risk only what is mine to risk. You risk far more. But, that is neither here nor there, I gather. What is it you want, old man?”

The jab lands and is deflected with the twitch of a brow. Fenris doesn’t have it in him to care much if he ruffles the other man or not. The verbal jabs make him feel better at the very least. Much like they had with the abomination.

“You clearly have talent. The organization which I am affiliated needs more people like you. Talented, full of ideals and convictions if we are to truly free our people from the lowly depths to which humans have pushed and chained us.” The calm manner in which Solas presents the information to Fenris makes him turn and look at the other man. There is something in those eyes, behind that disinterested look on his face. He has had run ins with those who called themselves Agents of Fen’Harel. This man – there is something that makes him feel as if he could never truly be subordinate to anyone. Yet he claims to also be an agent. He turns away, annoyed with his own lack of understanding the man beside him.

How can the Herald welcome such a man into her life? Into her heart?

“And you would have me use that talent and conviction to aid this Fen’Harel?”

“I would. If it was something you wished. He does not chain the unwilling to him, such an act is abhorrent and beneath him.”

“Lofty words. I shall think on it, old man.”

“See that you do.” The urge to tell Fenris to keep away from Jayla sits on the tip of Solas’ tongue. He debates it, the merit of making the challenge. He knows, knows without a doubt, that he will break that woman’s heart. Would it not be better to just let her go? Would Fenris go after her if he was told to stay away? Or is this man callow behind his gruff nature. “See that you also keep your eyes away from the Herald – from my Herald.”

In an instant, he has laid the challenge. The flash of anger in the bronze boy’s eyes lets Solas know as he stands, the challenge has been accepted. His heart tightens in his chest. A part of him rails against this – the part that is Action who had laid quiet to this moment. But now, now that he seeks to part from Jayla, the wolf in him howls his displeasure.

But this is the right path to take. To save her heart from greater pains. It’s all he can do, really. Save her heart, and hopefully save her life.

Revika shakes her head at the men, men who glare and snap at one another. Alphas who would fight over a woman who has already made her choice. The future where it concerns the men and the lone woman is uncertain. Jayla must decide which path she will walk, but until that point, she will suffer for the Elder wolf. A pity the short sighted man could not see it already.

“So, Jayla, you’ve come to start your tapestry. Tell us, what is it that makes you ready for such a thing?” She would learn the girl, and perhaps, help steer her to the way her heart was clearly beating. Or keep her on course with the man who would make himself miserable and break her if she let him.

“I – There has been much in the last few months that has changed me. I’ve taken lives out of necessity. I have become a hunter, a mother, a leader. I need clarity, reminders of my past and the heritage I hold dear. I need visible evidence on my skin to look at in the darkest of days and keep my spirit fighting.” Her words surprise her, but are no less true. Jayla has had so many days here where she wanted to give up. Where she wanted to crumble under the pressure, fold and never get back up. Duty kept her going, responsibility, now her children, now Solas, keeps her going.

“She’s wise for a little thing.” One of the grannies laughs, sitting back on her heels away from the place they dress the evening’s fish and game. It was to be a celebration tonight. A new member of the village – her adoption into the Rivaini people, Revika’s claiming over her as family.

“Better her be wise than blind!” Another of the women laughs with bright blue shining eyes trained on the young woman who blushes but does not let her head duck. There was a stubbornness in Jayla they all saw and approved of. She wouldn’t buckle when the worst came – this one would persevere. She could weather the storm that is coming for her.

“We need to put the warrior’s mark on her.”

 “The bands of nobility aren’t to be forgotten either. She’s Revika’s child now.”

“Shark’s teeth in the band on her right forearm, waves upon her left bicep.”

The words fly around the stones where they clean the scales from the fish deftly, gutting and beheading them. The heads go in baskets, to be used later. That was indigenous. Straight out of history. It makes Jayla smile. While it might not be a practice of her people, it’s good to make connections to see parallels between two very different worlds.

“I was thinking about the tiki –“

“Yes. Yes. Eyes in the back of your head, venerated ancestors watching over your shoulders, protection from what will attempt to steer you wrong. Put it in a sun, put it on your neck.” A withered hand reaches over, pats at the back of her neck with solid pressure.

Jayla is a touch bewildered. They didn’t have tiki here. She hadn’t seen any at least, no motifs or designs in the town where anything like those symbols at home. But, these women didn’t rub her the wrong way, didn’t fill her with distrust or dread. She’d listen to them, weigh their suggestions and words seriously before she decided on what to do.

“Are you going to get the turtle, little sister?” The question, coy in tone, makes Jayla’s head fly up. She will never get used to foresight, or how seemingly fixated these women were on her. The world seemingly revolved around Jayla presently and it wasn’t a fun feeling.

“You biddies are going to send the girl screaming into the water if you don’t stop nattering on.” Revika appears beside Jayla and the other women roll their eyes as they greet her. The Herald is quite glad the older woman has come to her rescue. Glad for all of ten seconds.

“Of course, she’s getting the turtle, the universe knows she will need all the help she can get to bear the stubborn one’s children. Especially if they keep at it like they have been.”

Her face goes scarlet and Jayla throws her hands in the air. “I can’t with ya’ll. I just can’t. How do you even know any of this!?” She’s flustered and more than a touch embarrassed to have it implied Solas would get her pregnant before the end of their quest to close the breach. That would be. Okay, so she’d love a baby with freckles and pointed ears like his father, but that wasn’t. It couldn’t. Gods damn everyone.

“You do know the Rivaini women are Seers. When your nightingale’s raven came, we were the first to respond. We knew you needed us. From then, our lives tuned to yours. Our Sight turned to you. We were waiting. Another daughter, sister, cousin, niece. Someone without hate in her heart and fire in her blood. We all saw you. The younger ones who call you little sister, they’ll take their mothers and grandmother’s places in time as Elders. Someday you might replace me. That is if you have the potential to see.”

Jayla feels like her head is either filled with cotton or about to explode. Take Revika’s place? Become an Elder of this town. Would she ever have that luxury? It’s an enchanting thought. But then her mind turns to Earth. To her life there. It may have been months here, but what if she could get home? Solas said it took a cataclysm to get her here and would likely take another to get her back. Could she risk it? Risk this world for a selfish desire?

“Come on, before the men get antsy. They never do know what to expect when we put our heads together like this.” One of the younger of the Elder’s seems to take pity on the Herald and changes the subject entirely. Woodenly Jayla helps them gather the cleaned and salted meats. Salted, spiced, trussed and stuffed meats. Some of it goes in clay ovens attached to the biggest house in the village and the rest the women take to their own ovens to cook. They would all gather when it was done to dance and feast together. It’s very reminiscent of a Luau back home.

They had been graciously afforded a small home to use as their own for the duration of their stay in this village of Llomerryan. It was quite far truth be told, from the city on the island. It suited the group just fine, Isabella had set off for Antiva. Business of some sort, she’d be back when they needed her.

Solas was glad to be away from cities. And here the Dalish had a permanent settlement, they had passed it as they left the city and began their walk into the countryside of the island. It was strange, but uplifting. He doubted, however, his information or presence would be anymore welcome than it had been by the Brecillian or Markham clans.

It was a cosy arrangement really. Three rooms, and a privy attached to the back of the house. The Children had all had opinions about the state of the house, some thinking it cute and others upset they would have to share beds once more. Jayla was just happy to have a room she and Solas could have a touch of privacy in. And with Fenris with them, unfortunately relegated to the great room and kitchen area – the children likely would not be intruding on them. She felt awful for being happy about that, but after several days in a cabin where she did nothing but lay beside Solas all because she was too scared to explore, this is – it’s very welcome.

The newfound intimacy they shared, it was something she found herself rather needy for. Even as they wait for their portion of the dinner meats to be cooked, bread in the front while the meat was at the back, she leans against him. She had curled herself into the side of his body, relishing the way he’d lifted his arm for her, the weight of it around her shoulders and side.

While they all smelled of the sea – because she refused to not bath daily when she had the chance. He still smelled like himself. That forest, elfroot, parchment, male smell that she adores. The silence doesn’t bother her either. It was nice to simply be. Of late there had been many conversations about so many things. To have silence surround her, to simply enjoy her lover’s presence at her side – it’s a blessing she won’t squander.

Waking the morning after the celebration finds Jayla sore and her head pounding. She is wrapped around Solas and he is wrapped around her. If she wondered what they had gotten up to the night prior, she needn’t. Shifting her legs gives her more than enough evidence. Apparently, she’d become bold enough to ask Solas to explore with her.

The thought makes her whole body warm. But, it was a rather enjoyable side benefit that she got to cuddle with him skin to skin. They didn’t do this at home, not when the kids could run in at any moment once the wards had been erased for the night. Just another reason to be thankful Fenris is sleeping –

Oh no. Her hand slaps against her face and she hopes to the heavens that Fenris didn’t hear them. Or worse, she didn’t ask him to keep the children away or that Sola didn’t ask him to. The wine had been free flowing last night, the food plentiful, and they had been encouraged to drink and eat until they couldn’t anymore. She couldn’t remember more after she’d been asked to dance.

She’d given them her roots, a Tahitian ote’a and then a Hawiaiian hula. The veil had pulsed then too, and again she’d invited the spirits to dance with her. Here no one had flinched besides Fenris.

That poor man. He’d looked shell shocked, worried. She remembered that much. She should get up, clean up, and then make breakfast. An olive branch, an apology. Something Fenris would see plainly for what it would be without her having to open her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tattoos next chapter. Dancing in detail next chapter. a Disagreement as well. Because some people don't want us to have nice things that took 100k words to develop. I'm not bitter or anything. Nope.
> 
> As always, I cherish your reviews and love chatting with you guys in the comments! I hope you enjoy this. I'm thinking we'll have about six to nine more chapters of this installment. We'll see. We'll see.


	32. Foolish Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Solas is his lovely Fatalistic, self-sabotaging self, Fenris has no idea what the hell is wrong with Solas, Jayla is happy and then hurt, and the strings of fate twang gently.

He wakes to the scent of sweet and savory foods filling the great room. It’s not often someone can slip around him, and the children that the mage couple had brought with them were no exception. He’d diverted the small ones a dozen times a piece at least and they’d been here only two days.

For children who weren’t truly blood, they are all quite attached to the woman the color of a starless night. Sitting up from his makeshift bed – several bedrolls layered on top of one another so he would be a touch more comfortable – Jayla’s insistence, he witnesses the little human woman. She dances, after a fashion, humming to herself as she cooks. He watches her, uncaring if Solas is also awake. The man had acted as if Jayla was a prized piece of china, for his eyes alone. Fenris didn’t like it. He wouldn’t follow the orders of such a person.

His eyes take in the way she sways as she moves around the kitchen, his ears just barely picking up the song she sings. It’s – not a language he knows. It must be Rivaini, for it has the same cadence, and the song is achingly sweet. His arms settle on top of his knees and he watches her. There’s the barest hint of surprise as he witnesses her wield a knife to chop vegetables for – something.

A rogue for sure. Her fingers are sure, movements deft, made without thought as the pieces of the meal come together. He can’t really tell what she’s making, just that there are eggs involved, and that there is sweet bread already cooking. He can see pastry, and suddenly the gentle scent of tea and warming cider hits him. The former-slave is entranced by her show, a show she likely didn’t intend to put on or know she was putting on. Rustling from the children’s room draws Fenris’ attention, and he as quietly as he can, moves to see if any of them need help readying themselves for the day.

She was singing a song her Mother had sang on good days. The really good ones, where the sun had seemingly shone brighter, and her mother’s smile hadn’t been so strained. The days when breakfast as an hour affair, and school wasn’t dreaded. When her mom braided up her hair for her, and pressed kisses to her forehead. The days when her Father wasn’t frowning, sadness and frustration in his eyes.

It was the good morning song, the good day song. Something that has never been shaken from Jayla. She doubts Thedas will be able to do it if her parents’ marriage crumbling couldn’t. Her hands move on autopilot. Waking with the dawn, she’d asked around for the ingredients she’d need, promising to do something for the ingredient holders in return later. Mostly she’d been met with knowing eyes and smiles. No one out right refused a trade, but Jayla is sure she’s going to have to have Josephine arrange some shipments of cloth or metals to make things even.

Now she’s got the bread baking, sweet cinnamon laced through liberally sugared bread. Pastry is in the tin she’d found with other cooking utensils, a carefully hammered out one. This must be old, and it is clearly well care for. Eggs have been prepared, the vegetables chopped and washed as best as she can manage here. The quiche might not come out right, might not be as perfect as it could be – but it would be enough to fill bellies.  The rabbits she’d caught are over the fire, stuffed with fragrant herbs she knows well now after months of travelling.

Cider warms for the children and Solas, while tea steeps for herself and Fenris. The tranquility of this is – it makes her feel full. She feels right here, feels completely at peace. She was feeding a small army, but she could in her own time. There isn’t any need to rush off to training, though she should do something, stretching, a run, something. Still – this place, she’s already so connected to it. Her impromptu dance does little to connect her further.

It’s like the sand and grass knew her before she’d stepped foot on the island. This place felt like home. Felt right. Felt perfect. So, she sings quietly to herself, old words tumbling from her lips as she sways in a makeshift dance that has no origin. Her magic hangs around her in a gentle cloud, monitoring the cabin, her children, her guard, her sleeping lover. Not so close she knows when Fenris wakes, nor when he moves, but closely enough to know he is safe and within the residence.

She doesn’t even notice him until she looks up and is greeted with smirking green eyes, a deceptively lithe form filling the entry way of the kitchen. She backpedals, a soft shriek of surprise leaving her that makes her slap a hand over her mouth. For a moment they stare at one another, Fenris by the door, Jayla leaning against the counter she’d been cleaning moments before. It’s the matter of heartbeat before soft, deep laughter fills the room.

The transformation is stunning. Fenris is a dour man, his features pulled into a half scowl whenever someone hadn’t actively amused or engaged him so he couldn’t stay in his own head. She hadn’t seen him laugh, however, and now she – hell. Jayla can see he is handsome, but this makes him light up in an entirely new way.

He looks young when he laughs. The smile, the way his eyes half close, how loose his entire being is for those precious moments. It makes her near uncomfortable in her awareness of him He is so like Solas. Her love who is so placidly stern all the time.

“I did not mean to frighten you. Forgive me, my lady.” He dips his head, the laughter still sparkling in his eyes.

Jayla smiles weakly, hand leaving her mouth, body shifting away from the counter top. “I – should have been paying better attention.” She winds her magic back in, the song on his skin making her shiver. “I didn’t realize I’d woken you up.”

“I would have woken soon enough anyway. Don’t worry yourself over it.” He pushes away from the entrance to move into the kitchen space. Fenris is aware of the way Jayla’s magic is pressed tight to her skin. That reaction to him is utterly different, new. Like a youth, he wants to push the advantage, see how she reacts to him in close proximity. It’s – not something he is going to indulge himself in.

He keeps a respectful distance from the small human woman. She is smaller than Merrill in height, but far more muscled. His eyes move to the boiling kettle, and deftly goes about removing it from the heat, scooping up the container of cider moments later. The silence in the kitchen is like a living being, following them, curling around them. She watches him, he watches her. They move in a companionable way, and yet avoid one another completely.

Solas lays in the bed he shares with Jayla and listens. The conversation is quiet, stilted, the children are moving in their room. Tara rounding her sisters up into their outfits for the day. Ben instructing them all to wash their hands, faces, brush their teeth, find their footwraps or shoes.

Anger burns in him, to hear Fenris speak with Jayla, even if the conversation is short. He doesn’t enjoy what he’s set in motion. Fenris is the youth Solas had been. Headstrong, willing to get into trouble to do as he pleased. His hands slide over his face. Would she turn from him? Jayla is – a woman of youth and unlike any other.

He doesn’t think she will turn from him, not without him doing something to push the matter. Could he, do it – push her from his orbit? Could he be selfless for once in his long, long life? He had imprisoned his family, because they killed his best friend, his mother as surely as the woman who had raised him. It was a selfish action as much as it was an action made to save and liberate the People.

Solas is aware of his short comings. He is but a man, a man with an incredible lifespan and more power than he should have, but he is only a man. And Jayla – her presence, her affection, her kisses are balms on his soul. She smooths his broken edges, tempers his rage at the world.

Would he give that up? How can he not? He would die by the time the veil falls. Condemning her to that. An aggravated noise leaves him. Could he really do that to her?  His mind settles on the night before. How she had wrapped herself around him, how her lips had whispered words in language he didn’t know reverently against his skin. Her fingers trailed over his skin so gently – so carefully. He has never felt so cherished.

His hands press to his eyes, and he squashes the arousal the memories stoke. He loves her. In a way only his people can – a sudden and deep intimacy. One that will not wane or waver. A love that has settled in his soul, urged on by his _Elgar’ falon_.  He has never understood the way Mythal loved Elgar’nan, her unending and limitless forgiveness in the face of his unending need for vengeance, his cruelty to their people. To their children at times.

Now, now he knows. He knows why Elgar’nan plucked the eyes from men who looked up on his wife too long. He knows why the All-Father happily went to war over a slight. Jayla – she changed _everything_. His world was no longer moored as it had been. She holds his tethers and such a thing is terrifying in its factualness.

But, he cannot be what moors her to this world. Because he will destroy it. Better to have loved and lost. Is that not the saying? Better to know what he could have had than walk to his death never feeling the perfection that is his family. A family he _must_ walk away from. But, not today. No, there are bricks to be laid yet, to pave the way for his retirement from the field. 

He pushes himself from their bed. The bed that smells of them, of their sex, of his claim on her, and promises himself that was the last time. He will hold her, he will kiss her, dream with her, beside her, but he cannot keep making love to her. Cannot tether her tighter when he was just going to give her away.

Solas has been quiet all day, Fenris notices as they walk with the children and Jayla. Jayla who holds the smallest, the tow headed dark child on her hip. The little one who smiles at him and makes faces. The bold child, unafraid of the man with a sword half the size of himself.

But, she was not his point of focus. Solas is. Solas who did not kiss his lover on the lips when he walked from their bedroom to join them for a riotous breakfast. Whose eyes do not stay locked upon the woman he had warned another man away from. He has not touched her once. The Herald is not blind, nor stupid, she has been sending him questioning looks all morning.

It is only when the Elder who has adopted her, sends the children to their lessons with the others, that Fenris sees it. Solas stops himself from reaching for Eldhru. He stops himself from doing more than patting the girl on the head, the girl who calls him Papae and looks utterly heart broken when she does not receive a hug. It doesn’t make any sense. Not a day ago, Solas touched his family without a care, he smiled, be it eyes are the quickest movement of his lips. This man – Fenris does not know him. No. No, he does. This is the man who didn’t tell his lover he was an agent for a man who would turn the world on its ear.

There is something very wrong here.

Revika is guiding Jayla away from the men. The faster she does this the better. The pale one, the one who would darken to caramel eventually, with freckles that label him beautiful, is withdrawing. Jayla sees and does not understand, the children see, and fear it, the bodyguard sees and disapproves, but will step in if the path solidifies.

Men. Men who believe they cannot be happy make her want to spit. This one especially. This one who would turn away the one person! The one who might understand. The one that hears his song and sings it with him. Who shies away from the one with a song in his skin, so loud she cannot hear what is in his heart.

They are a mess, the three of them. Four paths are possible here. The turning point is looming. They had so much work to do. Three of the four will cause pain, possibly heartbreak and corruption. One will be the hardest, the path with the most resistance, the path no one will understand but those who walk upon it.

Meddling didn’t ensure one path would occur. Meddling just muddied the waters, and distorted the pictures. It is enough to make an old woman cry. So, she hurries her newest daughter along, taking her to the place where they perform tattooing and piercing. They would start with the least painful, they would know their girl’s endurance this day.

The hut – and it is a hut – looms before Jayla. She studies it, the thatched roof the walls painstakingly made. This – this is straight from the history of her ancestors. All of them, the houses took different shapes, were made of differing materials, but it is a common thread between them.

Her worries about Solas’ distance, and there were several, drift away from her as she is ushered inside. A wizened woman, with skin like leather sits in the well-lit room. Around her are knives, pots of ink and – soot? Jayla’s eyes go wide, and reminders of her grandparents stories about the tattoos the ancestors bore flare to life. These tattoos were going to hurt like a mother.

Solas and Fenris had been allowed to do as they liked. Both, rather interestingly, stayed in the village. They avoided one another as much as possible until the dusk came and they were forced to wait together for Jayla to return from the path Revika had lead her down and away from them on.

“What game do you play, Mage?” Solas’ ear twitches at the rough and abrupt questioning of the younger man. The way he says mage – like it is an insult – makes Solas bear his teeth in a momentary snarl.

“What business is if of yours, _boy_?”

“You’re causing her pain, the children pain, or are you blind to what your actions do?”

“Again, I ask you – what business is it of yours, boy? What happens with _my_ family, with _my_ lover is no concern of yours.” His voice is like ice, and his heart throbs. He knows what he’s doing. It’s taken him weeks to build the courage to being laying the ground work for his retreat. He would not waiver because of the whelp. He couldn’t.

“Are they yours? It looks to me as if you are throwing them away.” The barked words barely make Solas blink, and his face remains calm, the snarl is but a memory.

“It is of no concern to you.” He sighs, and turns from the younger elf, in time to see Jayla come into view in the dying light of the sun. She might be darkness, but her tattoos are light now. The contrast is beautiful against the deep darkness of her skin. She glows, but not in the way one might assume. Her aura pulses around her, healing her. But the glow – it is her pride, and her beauty.

Jayla is in pain, but she is glorying in it. Gold flitters along the shells of her ears, there are glints at her cheeks where her dimples are, one at her cupid’s bow, her septum, her clavicles and the dips of her hipbones sport piercings as well.

But he removes himself from the point. She is glowing, and it is not the white that adorns her that makes her glow. This is happiness, pride, acceptance – _love_. She walks proudly beside Revika and he sees a side of her hair has been shorn off, scalp visible the nearer she comes.

His blood rushes in his ears. He can imagine her, feral and wild with furs around wound her chest, sitting on her hips. Her daggers at her thighs, feathers in her hair, a wolf skull at the center of her forehead. It is plain as day in his mind, her laugh, the magic that would dance along her arms, flying from her finger tips to weave into the world around them. This woman, surrounded with children, at his side.

Solas turns his head from the sight of her, his chest squeezing tight. Jayla was his – what he has always needed at his side. But he can’t. He can’t do this. He smiles bitterly as he turns away from her entirely, and moves away, in the direction of where the children had been taking lessons. A hand grabs him, and he stills. A snarl builds in his chest, but he quells it to not make a scene.

“Do not be a fool, old man.”

“Old wolves rarely learn new tricks, _da’lan_. Go. Congratulate her. I will be with the children.” He removes his hand from the other’s grip and resolutely walks away.

Fenris watches the older elf walk away from his lover with a slack jaw and wide eyes. Is this what the others had perceived when he and Hawke had parted ways? When he had run from Hawke like a coward and a fool? The white-haired warrior wants to slap himself, but instead does as he is bid.

He won’t let Jayla’s accomplishment, her happiness, be tarnished. Stalking forward, he smiles, a foreign feeling on his mouth still, and takes her new adornments in. Ivory, preserved no doubt by magic, creates bands on her biceps, fluid waves created by negative space inside them. On her forearms are what look to be – triangles or perhaps a different shape? He can’t place it. But he will ask, he will allow her to revel in her culture.

On her shoulder is an intricate design, and again he cannot make sense of it. The waves are easy to decipher but most of the rest don’t make sense to him. His eyes trail over her note the symbol at the base of her throat, before his eyes are drawn to her hips. The flash of gold is hard to ignore – but what truly grabs his attention is the design that peeks over the top of her waistband. The skirt sits low on her hips, and for it to just – be barely visible.

Fenris swallows harshly and drags his eyes away from her lower belly. He can see hints of flowers on her sides, and something – loopy? Again he would have to ask, but he isn’t worried about doing so. Perhaps it will keep her mind off the fact she no doubt just watched her lover walk away from her in a moment when he was meant to stay, to celebrate with her.

Jayla almost falters when Solas turns. She sees Fenris grab him, speak to him, and watches as he _walks away from her_. It doesn’t make any sense. This day has been – it didn’t make a damn bit of sense to her. Her frustration wells in her throat, a hot lump that indicates if she attempts to dwell on it or find answers she would cry. Revika’s hand takes hers, and the young Earthling – no – the young Rivaini woman is grateful. Fenris walks toward her, his smile making him seem young, and she is grateful for him too.

“Congratulations, my lady. Your – tapestry, is it? It suits you.” This close to her, he can see where her lip piercing is, her lip has also been permanently tinted white. He quietly ignores the way her eyes shine with hurt. He cannot be Solas for her, but he can be a friend. An enthusiastic friend.

“Thank you.” Her words are soft, hesitant. Truthfully, Fenris doesn’t blame her for her hesitance. Their conversations hadn’t exactly created a quick or lasting friendship. He would make an effort – since the elder elf is a fool of the highest order.  To leave this woman alone… why? And with a man who would dearly like to be a rival for her affections?

“Will you tell me, Jayla, what they mean?”

Her eyes shine brighter, and he watches how she swallows, how she closes her eyes to nod. It hurt her that Solas had left. She couldn’t figure out why he would. It all felt off now. Solas should have been here to, to do what Fenris was now doing.

“The ocean,” her hand that isn’t holding Revika’s indicates the bands around her biceps. “Life, fertility, persistence, the world beyond, where the ancestors dwell. Because they are placed on my upper arms, which is a place of strength and bravery, I suppose I am asking the ancestors to lend me theirs. And this placement marks me as noble, warriors and chiefs have tattoos here.” Her hand moves, and Fenris comes closer in the dying light, watching her with interest, soaking in the things she is telling him.

“Forearms are representative of creativity, creation – the making of things. The bands here, are shark teeth, for protection guidance and strength. It is paired with the Enata pattern inside – to represent the ancestors guiding me. A plea for them to help me create something good for this world and fiercely protect it” Her lips curl, a breath hissing from between her teeth as she brushes her fingers over irritated, recently healed skin.

Revika watches as the white-haired youth listens to her new daughter raptly. The girl radiates pain, but his presence, his desire to celebrate with her, eases that pain. She would find the older one later, and lay into him for his blunder. He would throw away a prize if he wasn’t careful.

“The face on the back of my neck, it’s a tiki – my mother had the same symbol on the back of her neck. They are our most venerated ancestors, that protect us, guard us, and sometimes bless us.” Here the girl’s eyes, that had been on the boy’s slide away uncomfortably as she skirts around her explanation. It makes the old woman have to smother a laugh. The girl didn’t want him to know how many fertility symbols had been carved, quite literally, into her body. It was quite amusing really. “The sun it’s in, is connected to rebirth, eternity, and passage to the world beyond this one, the seashells that appear inside it, around the tiki –“ her words catch and abruptly Jayla turns, letting go of Revika’s hand.

Tears shine in the girl’s eyes, confusion on her face before she lifts her hair and points to the shell design she’d asked for. “These ones here on either side, are for couples, marriages, the others are for protection and intimacy.”

The boy, he doesn’t miss a beat and the old woman could kiss him. “Why on your neck?” The Elder also notes with a quirked brow that his eyes dip to the Herald's rump, noting the way the gold twinkles in the dimples of her back. What an observant man. It would serve him well in the future.

“The head is where we connect to the creators, from the creation myth. It is also where spirituality, knowledge, wisdom, and intuition are centered. I ask for the ancestors to guide me with their wisdom, to bless. To bless my partnerships, and protect me as I move forward, and should I fall – I ask them to guide me to their side safely.”  Moving away from them, the Elder goes to inform the other women of what occurred, and to find that whelp who masquerades as a grown man.

When Jayla turns, Fenris has no idea what possesses him to do it, but he brushes a thumb against her navel. He doesn’t know her well enough for this – but there is something that is drawing him to her. It’s something he can’t ignore, and thusly, for perhaps the first time, he doesn’t resist it.  “And here?”

Jayla sucks in a breath, her brown eyes wide as Fenris watches her from under his lashes. Lashes that are quite thick and pretty. Too pretty for a man to have, it isn’t fair. She shakes her head, brushing aside his hand gently. She isn’t modest. How many have seen the whole of her legs and probably much of her ass at this point? What difference does it make if one more person sees some of her skin? He doesn’t know where to look when her thumbs pull her skirt down. Not all the way, but enough to see the turtle splayed across her lower belly.

“A _hono_ , is what my mother called it, and she had it as well. I placed it where life energy or _mana_ , independence, procreation and sexuality lay. It’s where _mana_ originates, and the _hono,_ has so many meanings. Unity, joining and creation of families, health, peace, longevity in life, foundation, stability, fertility.” Her cheeks pink up, and Fenris feels his ears warm, dragging his eyes up to hers.

Things are shifting around them; the air is heavy as she fixes her skirt. She watches as green eyes are drawn by the movement, and tries not to jump when the tip of a finger slides just under one of her piercings. She draws his hand away, places it on her side above right at the start of the curve of her waist. “These flowers are native to the Rivaini, they represent femininity, and its placement is for harmony. May I always balance my nature and my duty as a warrior so I do not fall prey to the pitfalls only one aspect faces. Below that, are the names of the children, in my mother tongue. Placed for my sincerity of commitment and so I never forget to honor it. So we may always reconcile no matter what passes between us.”

Her head tilts back when Fenris shifts his hand from under hers and places it at the base of her throat. Again, his touch is whisper soft and lingers. Jayla swallows, because she isn’t sure about this, about the energy passing between them. It’s not what she has with Solas. That is sweet and gentle, intense but deep running. This. She can’t name this.

“Another Rivaini symbol?” His voice is dark, and it’s then she realizes his eyes are shining in the early night light. Her mouth works for a moment before she answers him. “It is, Revika insisted upon it, said I would need it in my coming trials. But she didn’t tell me it’s meaning. I only know it is also where spirituality, knowledge, wisdom and intuition lay. A protection perhaps?”

Those eyes, shining and bright, lock onto hers. It’s like there is no air here suddenly, she can’t breathe under that look. She doesn’t realize she’s moved, that a hand has grabbed at the side of his tunic, the other on his wrist, eyes wide, startled, afraid, unsure. But Fenris sees it, feels her grip on him. Something is shifting, something is pulling him to her – he can’t tell if it’s a good sign or bad.

“I will protect you. I swear it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYSA - I don't like love triangles. So I'mma be real. Either Solas gets his shit together, Jayla jumps ship, or they need a bigger bed.  
> I am legit so annoyed with Solas for this chapter. I wanted to rewrite it today. I tried and it wouldn't happen. So here. Here it is. Blame the damned egg.


	33. Duty First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay ya'll buckle up. It's going to get worse before it gets better. We all know how our beloved Rebel can get.

When Jayla and Fenris come to the edge of the bonfire in the center of the town, after she had explained the tattoo upon her shoulder, they part ways. They had been silent the whole walk back to the town, neither able to make sense of the moment they had shared. Fenris has never reacted so strongly to someone before. Positively, that is. Not even Hawke had ripped such loyalty and desire from him, certainly not within days of them meeting. She was – completely different in all the ways that mattered to Fenris.

She did not look at him with desire in her eyes – desire fueled by a lust for the power he could provide her. That woman, leader, saw him, the intensity of what he was experiencing, and stepped back every time. Every time except for tonight.

Tonight, four days since they had met, Jayla had focused doe eyes on him, had willingly laid her skin against his, and _accepted_ him. Accepted the oath he made. He would keep her safe. Safe from what, he could not know, for she is capable, if Varric is to be believed. Perhaps from heartbreak, but Fenris did not count himself a shining chevalier, nor Jayla a helpless princess. No. He knew she would need saving, but from what, he couldn’t know yet.

Jayla didn’t get a chance to linger at the edge of the firelight, where the darkest shadows lie. The younger women, the daughters who are a decade older or the same age as Jayla swarm her, their hands are light, but they draw her close and soon she is by the fire, listening to the drums the men make with their instruments, learning how the Rivaini dance. It is not so far off the dances she was taught as a little thing, and she picks them up quickly. She loses herself in the rhythm, the stomping of feet, the movement of her skirts against her legs, she feels the grass and dirt under her feet and the connection snaps into place.

Revika watches her daughter begin to glow and smiles. She’s a resilient woman, that one, put she shouldn’t need to be when it came to her family. There was no need for the pain that had been displayed earlier. Turning away from the fire, from the daughter she needed as much as Jayla needed her, and the guard who grew more infatuated with every encounter, she finds _him_.

He is surrounded by his children, face drawn tight. Eldhru and Delphine have commandeered his lap, and she sees this for what it is. He is trying to say good bye to them. Her breath comes out like the snort of an angry horse, and she catches the eye of one of the younger men. He was a good sort, timid, but sweet hearted, he’d be a teacher one day, a good husband for one of the girls. He comes at her beckoning.

“Hey, _haole kanaka,_ you and me, we need to have words.” She says it loudly enough for him to hear. And she knows he did because his eyes get taught around the edges, his jaw twitches, and his ears just barely twitch as if they want to lay flat against his head.

“Of course, Lady Revika.” He lets the girls remove themselves from his person before he stands. There is a cursory glance given to the boy who’d come at her call, but he says nothing, instead waiting for Revika to do as she will. She waits until the children are settled around Loto before she leads Solas away from the fire and celebration.

“ _Haole_ , you’re going to hurt your heart if you don’t get your head out of the sand.” They’d barely stopped before Revika turns on him, scowl in place. “Those kids – you took them, they’re yours, you can’t leave them like you’re setting up to do!”

He feels like he’s been struck. The human Elder doesn’t mince her words, or hide her meaning. He’d hoped to be subtler, but perhaps the foresight of the Rivaini isn’t to be underestimated after all. Either way, he cannot stop what he has put in motion. He made his choice. He loves them, desperately. Jayla, his children, this life that they built in what feels like moments. However, he can’t. He won’t watch them wither and die.

“I know what I did, Lady Revika. I know what I am doing.” He keeps his voice calm, face placid, even though annoyance flashes through him. Twice now people dare to question him, as if this is not one of the hardest things he will have to do. Falling into this was easy, too easy. Easier than falling into war, and he – spirits – he needs them, but he knows what will happen. They will die. Revika has no idea how that would torture him. How it would render him a shell of who he is. Solas refuses to let it happen. He can’t do what he must encumbered by such emotion.

“You’re a fool. You’ll throw away happiness for what? What makes you throw my daughter away as if she is nothing? What makes you turn from your children?” Eyes that are developing cataracts peer at him, they’re amber, and still so cognizant of the world around her. Her magic sits tight against her skin, but she is dull – like all the rest of them.

“You would not understand, it is beyond understanding. My – I have much I must do when Jayla’s duty is complete, I will not ask her to leave the people who will need her. It was – selfish to grasp at what I knew I could never have.”

“Bullshit.” The growled word makes him rear back, eyes widening before they narrow. What has this woman seen? What does she know? Why does she react so passionately? Shouldn’t she want Jayla to marry into the village properly? To have some Rivaini man at her side, a Rivaini child on her hip?

“You question things you know nothing about.” His teeth grit as his eyes flash, a whisper of his power, what he could be, showing in them. But the old human woman makes no move to show fear. Instead her chin tilts, eyes defiant. Had Solas not known Jayla was of Earth – he’d question whether or not this was truly her mother.

“I know enough. I see her pain. The young wolf, he can make her happy, can keep her safe, give her children, and if you let him – he will. He stepped into your shoes already, he celebrates with her the beginning of her story, the creation of her safe guards. But that girl wants _you_. She chose you first. Are you really going to toss that away? Will you truly let the only woman you want fall into the arms of another man?”

“What business is it of yours, woman, what happens between she and I?” His temper flairs, words cutting into him. The thought of Jayla – of bronze and silver hands touching her, smoothing over a rounded belly, it kills him, makes his heart squeeze as if he might not make it, and Action howls in protest. But he pushes against it. Uses anger, the utter heartbreak he’d felt when he’d woken and found the world full of shadows and tranquil to push past it. “I cannot stay with her. When her duty is done, I must continue on my own path. I will not see her die for me.”

“You’re blind, as blind as you are stubborn. Our Jayla – she’s got the ancestors watching her, the universe has touched her, she’s meant for more than just the duty set before you. You feel it, you see it, I know you do. The way her magic grows and grows and grows. You think this Inquisition will keep her until her dying breath? No, she will consume it, mold it, create something more than it could ever hope to be! But that only happens when she is _whole_ and there are so many ways that can happen, boy. You can be there, you can make her whole, you can let the young wolf make her whole, you could both make her whole, or she can wither alone because of you. She can be betrayed by you. She can die, because of you. You’d happily see her world burn and die because you think she can’t walk your path?” Revika is dancing on the edge, but the way his eyes flash. This one – he’s made this choice before. Perhaps not exactly, but similar. He’s sacrificed before. He’s let – He’s let something burn for an apparent better, but she doesn’t know _what_. That she can’t find. But she sees the proof in his eyes.

Those eyes that flash, that sparkle like a storm, that cry without tears, that shutter and close themselves off from the world. He is good at this, at keeping himself from feeling, from showing his feelings to others, but not good enough. She’s old, older than he’d assume, and reared more than a few of the men and women of this village. He’ll cut his heart out to spite his face and die in the process. It’s clear as day the way his jaw twitches, his hands clench at his sides, how his head twitches to the side, to avoid her eyes while forcing himself to look at her. Revika sees it all, she sees him.

“What have you seen?” Fear grips Solas’ heart. He refuses to allow Jayla to die. She is needed here. He barely registers the options ‘to keep her whole’ all he can focus on is the notion of her death. The words the Seer uses. They are specific and gouge pieces of him out he didn’t think were exposed. But he sees no fear in her, no sign of her knowing his past, his future. No, she’s focused on the Herald, on Jayla. They all are in this place. This tribe of people who claimed her, they all act as if they know her.

“I see much, _haole_. And I’ve said my piece. It’s your choice now. You choose the road you walk down, but you don’t look back when you start walking. You don’t get to regret the choices you make if it brings the world down around your ears.”

He watches the Elder, who has eyes that will fail soon, her complexion that is only barely wrinkled yet cast in such a way to say she has perhaps two decades, maybe three, left here; whose hair glows it is so white, but has a soul so fierce were he a younger man, a lesser man, he would quake before her. And were Jayla truly her daughter, he would have to be terribly careful courting her.

But Solas is not young, nor lesser than he is. He doesn’t quake when her words tear him to ribbons. Not when she condemns him for his choices; nor when she tells him he cannot regret what road he walks down. It shakes something loose in him. In Action. Action who has sat stunned and locked away by Solas’ sheer force of will.

The spirit is not happy. It snarls and prowls in his mind, snapping his teeth when Solas turns his attention on him. It makes him sigh, and his shoulders sag. No one will be happy tonight it seems. Especially not him. He has no other words to defend what he’s decided, and no desire to fight with this woman, the Matriarch of her people in this village. He simply turns understanding and sorrowful eyes on her, nods and returns to his pack.

He's going to miss them so much.

The youthful women of the town warm Jayla, the drums pound in the night and the men wait until the moons are highest in the sky, long after Revika’s conversation with Solas and his retreat with the children, to move into the fire light and begin their own dance. Their dances are similar to those danced on Earth as well, and Jayla feels herself find comfort here once more. She’s never been to a party like this on Earth, but it’s close enough to what she knows – that it’s easy to flow with it.

Her hair whips around her, and her hips roll rapidly when the beat calls for it. She sways in an infinite figure eight, stamps her feet and raises her voice to the heavens with wild abandon. She presses out her calls to her ancestors, hopes they can slide into the beyond and though she is so far, far from her birth place, that they will hear and watch over her.

Drink flows freely, and Jayla partakes carefully. She is not so wild that she will lose herself here, not like that, and not like the night prior, but she will be free. The moon casts her in gentle light, while the fire’s warmth licks at her skin and casts a yellow haze around her. When she spots Fenris alone, she pulls him into the firelight.

The blush that warms his face makes her smile, and while he is – he is intimidating, taller than her, stronger than her, an anomaly, too attractive, he is a friend. He has made himself that today when he took interest in her culture. She teaches him, on the outskirts of the dancing, the moves the men do, throwing in ones she remembers from the competitions and celebrations she participated in during her school years.

He is hesitant, it shows in his eyes, shuttered, unsure, but he moves with her. He smiles when she praises him, the barest hint of one, and her heart feels lighter. Whatever was happening with Solas, whatever had happened between them earlier on the path – they would have this moment of sheer joy that was utterly innocent.

Her voice is hoarse, smoke and continued chants and declarations making it so. But it’s beautiful as she teaches him the words to say. She’s star touched as her head is thrown back and her voice sings to the sky above them.

Jayla may never have felt chains like he did, but there is something, something that makes him feel as if he has to be right here where he is. That having refused Varric’s request would have been folly, that if he wasn’t here, things would have gone poorly for her. He feels like she might need him, and he knows he needs her.

Fenris has come so far in the short time he’s been free of Danarius. He knows this, feels this. But to watch the woman who is tasked with saving the world, to watch her throw herself at life with a people who just reclaimed her? Who had been raised and taught the slave dances a generation removed from them – he has so far to go. He wants to learn to be as she is right now. He wants to be completely free.

So, when the next call goes up, his head is thrown back, eyes closed, as he moves in the way he was taught, and his voice howls to the sky. He might have the name his mother gave him, his sister may curse him, he may have no idea who his people really are, but right now? Right now -he is utterly himself.

They dance until the sun comes up, all of them, only the eldest and youngest retiring to their beds. The drums herald the sunrise, and their throats are raw when they make the last call to the ancestors and universe. The fire has died, and there are quiet groans of exhaustion all around them. Yet, Jayla seems like she could keep going. He feels as if he could stay awake all day.

His eyes take in the town, the way it’s set up to face the beach, the water. The small dock, with boats that had been designed in ages past yet needed no improvement moored there. The waves flash in the light, and he keeps hold of the feeling that fills him. Today – today he will not think of the past, he will not allow it to take him into the darkness.

When a calloused hand grabs hers, Jayla’s head whips around. Fenris’ face greets hers. He is – radiant in the morning light. There is a softness to him, not vulnerability, not uncertainty like she has seen before. There is no self-hatred or depreciation in him. He stands tall, and he tilts his head toward the water.

Her eyes flick from that branded face, and she contemplates his silent suggestion. It feels as if they have been friends for years, decades. She doesn’t have to say a word. All the Herald does is flash a wicked smile, and they take off running for the beach. Like children, they laugh, trip, hands clasped until they fall into the ocean water.

It’s cold, and makes them yelp, but they don’t give in and leave. No, their hands separate and they frolick. The freeness, happiness, the high they had felt during the celebration clings to them, even as sweat and sand is washed away by the salt water. They grapple, not that Jayla is any match for Fenris in strength, like children do. There is nothing heated in the way they touch, the way he grabs her around the waist or how her legs wrap around his.

It's pure. It’s a desperate attempt to not face what waits for them in the village. Jayla needs this. To be herself, not the Herald, not – not whatever Revika sees. She just needs to be Jayla, to be twenty- two and reckless. And Fenris – he’s drowned so long in dark feelings, this release, even with a mage, with her aura dancing along his skin, he doesn’t feel pain. He is at peace, happy, alive. They both desperately need to feel this. Because clouds are gathering on the horizon.

Solas watches them, the deep and profound nature of their feelings echoing in the Fade. The depth of it, of Fenris’ despair, his pain, distrust, uncertainty – it shocks him. Shocks him that the man made it this far in his life, that he had found a reason to keep waking up each morning. Jayla – her pain that roils under the surface for him turning away, it hurts. But as he watches them, was Fenris tackles the small island woman into the waves, hearing the echoes of her delighted shriek being swallowed by the crash of the water, her happiness radiates as well. It consumes her, knocking away demons that had been waiting for an opening – and so many hung around Fenris, turned their attention to the young one who glows like a star.

Spirits swirl around the pair. Happiness, friendship, joy, laughter, everything that is good in this moment, that can be embodied purely, comes to watch. Comes to see and remember.

“You made the young wolf a doorway. You would abandon our pack – our mate!” Action shivers beside him, pacing back and forth behind him. It had been silent to this moment, watching, anger spirits swirling and bouncing off the protections Solas had cast for them. He has no energy to argue, and slumps to sit on the grass that overlooks the pair who are dragging themselves from the water, clothes stuck to them, laughter still stealing their breaths.

“Look for yourself, Action. You still have your deal. She has not turned from us.”

“But you have turned from her!” The roar makes him settle his arms over his knees, chin setting on top of them.

“We’ll kill her. I am selfish. I will not know more happiness just to have it snatched away by my own hand. The little wolf, he would be a good match. A good protector.”

“There will never be someone like her! If you must take them both. Gender never stopped you in the past. We had who we wanted. We found sparks of happiness in the old world. Do not do this to us. Don’t forsake the one person we both want, that we could keep alive beside us! Her soul has no scar upon it. She could find –“

“Would you wait to free the People just to see her find her Sal’Falon? It could take an age for that to happen! And your deal might sustain her, but it is not wise. This is a mistake. Letting myself have her was a mistake!”

“When did you become a fool, Solas?”

“The day I was born, I imagine.” A mirthless chuckle escapes him as he watches Jayla sit with Fenris on the beach. They don’t speak, there is perhaps half a foot between them, but none of the spirits leave. If anything, they press closer. Winds are shifting. Sands are eroding. A moment of happiness was enough to keep him warm in the darkest of nights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am doing damage control I SWEAR IT. But lets just take this moment to enjoy how freaking _happy_ Fenris is right now? He's frolicking. FROLICKING. There is nothing more pure than that. 
> 
> haole kanaka - foreign man  
> haole - foreigner 
> 
> As I understand it from my research, since I am -not- a native hawaiian nor have any pacific islander blood (as far as I am aware) - haole can be a pretty derogatory thing to call non-natives. So I carried it over here, specifically because Solas is making an ass of himself and Revika is NOT HAPPY about that. 
> 
> And Rev - Revika isn't some dime a dozen Hedgewitch either. There's a reason she jumped to claim Jayla, why she is pushing this so much with Solas. It'll get explained eventually. She isn't a big, huge, character, but she is important.


	34. Grasping at Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Action finally sees Jayla after several weeks apart.

Solas keeps withdrawing from Jayla and she can’t figure it out. She doesn’t understand. But she also doesn’t chase him. She isn’t a teenager anymore, and she learned this lesson hard. If he wanted space – or if he didn’t want her at all, then that was his choice. Was it shitty that he’d decided to just end them without talking to her? That he threw away months of friendship because he couldn’t tell her he didn’t want her? Yes. It was the highest level of shitty and she won’t ever lie about it.

He sleeps outside. For two days since the bonfire he slept outside. It is killing her. Emotionally, not literally, because Jayla can be a Prima, but she’s never been a drama queen. It hurts. It hurts _so much_ because he was supposed to be better. He was – is… her friend! It isn’t supposed to be this way.

Her face presses into his pillow, tear soaked to the point it doesn’t carry his scent anymore and breaths deeply. Not tonight. Not tonight. Fenris has been looking at her, his eyes soft but they become Silverite when Solas walks in the door to rouse the children. The children who are confused and hurting just like she is. He teaches them still, tells them stories, but he doesn’t carry Eldhru, nor dote on Maël or Niven. They hear her crying. They know something is wrong.

But how do you tell children their new family is already broken?

Fenris can’t bear it another night. He paces the dirt floor of the borrowed home they sleep in and listens as Jayla breaths to stave off tears. Two days of this. Of that _Vashedan bas_ who abandoned her. Fenris had hoped, fuck, he had **prayed** when Solas had all but ignored Jayla when they returned from the bonfire, that this would smooth over. That they would speak and this would be fixed.

Because there is a grey cast to Jayla now. Her smiles do not reach her eyes unless the children are present. She is wilting a little more each day that worthless excuse of an elf refuses to speak with her for more than pleasantries. It’s painful. It’s horrifying to watch.

When the hiccups start tonight, Fenris gets up off the floor, he’d anticipated it, and wears his undershirt still, light sleeping pants barely making a sound as he moves. He can’t let this stand, and he walks into the night. It isn’t hard to find the man, his magic is like a beacon, warming the young warrior’s marks and making his jaw tick in annoyance.

He sleeps beneath a large tree, ten minutes’ walk from their shared and borrowed hut. The wards make Fenris’ skin crawl, but he endures the discomfort to activate his lyrium and phase through. It’s like knives trace along each brand, but he will endure this because Jayla can’t keep this up. He won’t allow it.

“Wake up, Old man!” His foot lashes out, and catches Solas’ in the calf. It is not a gentle action, and he is not left waiting. The bald man bolts awake and his magic flares, flames licking in his palm ready to be thrown. Fenris only flares his marks in response.

“What. What is it?” There is a frantic edge to his voice, and were Fenris a crueler man, he would spin a story to make the pale one’s heart jump like a nug’s before it stopped. Instead, he sneers and jerks his head in the direction of the house.

“She’s been crying. She’s cried for the last two nights. I won’t stand by and watch you destroy that woman. Fix. It.”

The formerly god-revered man’s magic sputters and dies in his hand. Crying. He made his _vhenan_ cry. Action shifts so violently, Solas has no doubt that if they were not one being in truth, he would be attacked. They have become ever more at odds, and Solas begins to worry what will become of him the longer he pushes this. Perhaps a cleaner break is needed. Perhaps he must be cruel to be kind.

“No.” The word catches in his throat, but he forces it out, voice low and warning. “There is nothing to fix.”

Part of him crows when the young man who towers above him lets his mouth drop open in shock. In truth – the boy is beautiful. Action was not wrong. But Solas didn’t desire him. He loathed him. Loathes him because Fenris will be the one to hold Jayla, to taste her lips and feel her sighs, he will be the one to give her children. Revika has said as much.

It will be better this way, but that does not make it pain him less. It does not mean he doesn’t hate the whelp for having what was his, first. What he does not expect, does not anticipate by any means caught in his mind as he is - is for the man to strike him.

It’s fast, and it shows the strength kept in that wiry frame. It snaps his head to the side, and his cheek cut against his teeth. A curse leaves the Elvhen man’s lips and he turns angry eyes on the man who glares at him as if that look alone could kill him. Perhaps he hopes it does. Perhaps that would be – no.

“ _Fasta vass_ , you are not worth her tears. You are a _proditor_ of the worst order! To abandon her, to flaunt your continued interaction with those children- _vishanti caevas_ **,** _beseve dorus_ ” The boy spits the words, the Arcanum – no Tevene, that is what they say now makes his blood run hot and he stands, half a head above the younger man.

“It is none of your concern, _da’lan_. I told you to stay away from her. I told you to keep your eyes from her, and yet there you are, sticking to her side. Following her like a puppy waiting for affection. You think you can take my place in her heart, in her bed? Try. She is mine, whether or not I am there to lay claim.” Blood stains his lips and anger drives his words. Solas is not this man anymore. He isn’t the brash and capricious youth who did this. He should have made the break clean. He must rectify that at the very least.

Fenris cannot believe what he has heard. What he sees. This is a man who would rival any magister, and he **despises** him. That Jayla so clearly loves him, breaks his heart. But, the challenge is very clear now. If Solas thinks he can string Jayla along, Fenris will cut the string. He won’t let this continue. He won’t allow Solas the ability to destroy a woman such as the Herald.

Abruptly he turns, blue light consuming him as he leaves through the wards. His feet carry him away from the sad excuse of a man claiming to be elven, and toward the person who needs him. The woman who needs someone to hold onto while she let her heart crack.

 _What have you done_. Action stands horrified when Solas slips back into the Fade. He is beside himself, anger swirling where quiet affection for his _Sal’falon_ usually sat.

 _We have not been so cruel in an Age or more. What drives you to such madness?! She needs you. She wants you! She is our mate and you are throwing her away! How can you allow this? Why are you doing this to yourself, to us, to **her**?!_ The wolf shakes its head, ruby eyes critical and full of distaste as they look down upon Solas. This man who he was a part of, he would ruin them if he kept this up. He would ruin it all.

“Stop.” The word feels like bands of steel around the wolf, making him buckle under the pressure. “You know why. She distracts us. We are here to do two things, we must regain our orb, and we must remove the veil. We must meet our family head on, and kill them all to set things right again. You know this. We planned this for thousands of years!” His voice is quiet, and he pushes against his spirit, attempting to cage him.

 _She is our **falon’saota**!_ The words are strained but Action won’t let it go. He can’t. He doesn’t understand how Solas can do this. How it doesn’t tear him apart. They have not been cruel since they saw the People as the beings they are – whole and worthy of personhood. Where had this anger come from? What was poisoning them?

“Please, _falon_. This is hard enough as it is. You think I want to be away from her? That I do not want to know the smell of her hair, the feel of her skin against mine? That I do not miss dreaming with her, beside her? I miss her presence, her smile, the warmth she brings to a room or a region just by being present. I do miss her, everything about her desperately. To the depths of our shared soul, I yearn to take it all back and collapse in her arms begging for forgiveness! But she will die.”

_Our love will not kill her! How highly you think of us, to think just being near will kill her._

“No. Not like that, _fen’falon_. But she will never leave our side. Don’t you see that? Don’t you realize what will happen when the Evanuris are free? They will kill her, as punishment, as they killed Mythal.”

_Mythal’s murder –_

“Must we go and revisit the scene? Must we!?” Rage fills Solas as he screams. He can’t continue this. He will not fight himself and keep watching as Jayla wilts without him. It’s too much on top of the dull and lifeless quality of this world. He must endure, until Corypheus is dealt with, and then it will be fixed. His time will be over.

_Solas. Please._

“No.”

Jayla starts when a figure fills her doorway. It isn’t Solas, she knows immediately that it’s Fenris. He is shorter, ironically more compactly built, and his hair makes him glow in the darkness. She sniffs quietly, or attempts to, and sits up in the bed, clearing away the lump in her throat.

“Fenris, what –“

“Please, Jayla. We both know why I am here.” She expected harshness from him, and flinches at the gentle tone of his voice as he walks in. He perches on the bed, hands clasped in his lap, and awkwardly watches her.

“I – I’m sorry.” Her words choke her and the tears burn her eyes. Embarrassed tears, angry tears, sad ones too.

“No. You don’t. I am not mad at _you_. You are hurting, I am – I want to help, if I can.” He doesn’t know the first thing about crying women. But he is trying, that much is obvious. Jayla wonders if she should ask him to get Solas, or just use him as something to cling to. The thought makes her wince. Using Fenris would be no better than what Solas had done. Her body leans forward, her head pressing against the warrior’s shoulder.

“I just want this all to stop.”  

Arms curl around her, pulling her from the covers of the bed onto a sturdy lap. He may not know how to deal with crying women with words, but he knew how important physical contact could be. He’s learned, watching the slaves he’d helped free from estates and slavers alike. She’s stiff, he’s stiff, but he keeps holding her. It takes time, what feels like ages, before she sags against him.

He promised he’d protect her. He hadn’t thought it would be against Solas.

Action paces the fade as he waits for the beacon that is Jayla’s mind. He’s tired of this. He isn’t happy. The rage in his heart that he feels is threatening to overtake him. Once, many years ago it did. Rage and Vengeance took him. He had helped start wars, he had taken great risks before his bloodlust was sated.

He can’t do that now. It cannot happen again. He cannot be Rage, nor Vengeance. He cannot be Jealousy or Envy. He won’t allow it even if his _Sal’falon_ would happily drop them off that cliff and whistle while they plummet. So, he waits, far from where Solas has secluded himself. The moment her presence becomes less of a wisp and more of a reality, Action takes off. He barrels into her dream and stops short.

She has been crying. He can see it in the way she sits in a room he’s seen only once before in her nightmare. The spirit growls, shifting into the form he and Solas took when they were together. Tonight, it feels hollow, but he will not allow that fool anywhere near her.

“ _Da’falon_ , why are you so sad?” He has her in his arms before he even thinks to stop himself. They have never done this, whenever he and Solas came together, it was to teach her. But of late she has been exhausted. Her mind dropped into sleep so deep he could not reach her, nor could Strength or Command.

He flinches when she sucks in a breath that is let out as a half sob. Her little hands grab at him and she buries herself against him. He can smell the presence of the younger wolf. It’s strong, as if – he sighs. As if the boy were sleeping right beside her. How foolish could his soul bonded be? He was driving her into another man’s arms.

“Solas – He. He’s leaving me. He won’t talk to me, won’t touch me! He barely even looks at me.” Her words are strained, and Action murmurs nonsense at her. This affected her far more than Solas could know. Or perhaps he did, and the man was so stubborn he closed himself to it. Or he was so sure he deserved to be alone, that he took the pain and embraced it. Action doesn’t know. For all they share a body, a mind, they are still two different people.

“I am sorry, _ma’halla_. You mustn’t despair. You can-,” He pauses. Why should _she_ go to _Solas_? This was his fault. She was not the one the burden of fixing this grievous error would fall to. “I could seek him out, I could perhaps speak with him?”

Her head shakes, and she sags against him as the tears continue but her body gives into how tired she is. Silent tears, no wracking sobs. “What good would it do? He doesn’t want me anymore. I don’t even know what I did.” Her breath stutters and he feels himself wilt. She would not fight for him? He doesn’t understand what would drive her away so quickly and thoroughly.

“If he doesn’t want me, fine. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, but I won’t run after him. I am not that girl, Action. I won’t let one man be the entirety of my world. There’s – There’s too much at stake. Revika is teaching me to see. She’s pulling it out of me, but it’s going slower than it should because I’m like _this_.” Her hands flail against him, and he supposes she is indicating her situation. Still, the spirit doesn’t understand why Jayla won’t try.

“I don’t see the sense of you leaving things like this if you love him, _da’halla_.” He murmurs the words and she stiffens against him. Clearly, he has made a miss-step.

“Love doesn’t mean we should be together. If he loved me, he’d speak to me. If he loved me, he wouldn’t just stop everything like he did!” Her voice raises and the pain gives way to anger. He can feel the spirits and demons turning, paying attention. “If he wanted me, he’d stay! I won’t run after anyone. If they want to leave, leave! I have been alone for long enough I won’t die, I won’t become some wilted flower who can’t do anything!”

She shoves herself away from Action, too angry to let herself be held by him. Love. Love means working for each other’s better. Love means working it out. Love means fighting, growing, compromise! Where was Solas’ fucking compromise? Where was the working together for her better, his better, their better _together_? Where was the communication?

“He didn’t love me. He might have loved fucking me. But he didn’t love me.” Her words shock Action into stillness. How – how could she think such a thing? That he would use her in such a fashion. That they -.

“Please, _ma ‘falon_ , you are hurting. Solas isn’t –“

“How would you know?!” She shrieks, and Action recoils. Rage is coming for her. He needs to fix this.

“I don’t, _ma ’falon_. I don’t. But I would hope, if such a woman fell into his lap, he would not take her for granted. Had you fallen into mine, I would never let you leave.”

“You aren’t Solas.” Her face falls and she sighs, looking around her living room. They’d probably taken her things, alerted her family to her absence. Something. This wasn’t her living room anymore. She’d counted, in an attempt to push thoughts of Solas away today. She had counted the weeks. Three weeks to the day she decided to go to the hinterlands, two weeks from that before they left. Some three months there, four days walking there and four back. Two days to Val Royeaux, a day there, four days to the Storm Coast, a month there, three weeks in haven, three days to Highever, three days of boating, three days here, four more to go. At least six months. Seven months and a week. That’s how long she’d been gone. Her life on Earth was essentially over. Five more months and she’d be declared dead or a cold case, maybe both. Maybe she’s already a cold case. It doesn’t even matter anymore.

Her hands run through her hair and she looks at Action. “You aren’t Solas. You can’t know what he feels. And unfortunately, Action, you’re a spirit, not a man.”

 

Solas’ fingers grip his staff to the point they are bloodless. Rage and jealousy wash through him as he stands in the doorway to his – their – _Jayla’s_ bedroom. The young elf is tangled with her, arms wrapped around her waist, waist that had been thin but is now sturdy and strong, the gentlest curve to it. Their legs are tangled up, her hand is caught in his hair, her face mashed against his neck. They look – peaceful.

It should be him in her arms. But, he knows it is no longer something he can have. It tears into him, eats at him. But, he has made his choice. He was doing as Revika had said. He made his choice, he was walking on the road he had chosen. The shem’len woman needn’t know how it sundered his soul to do so.

He was only here because Action had come to him before dawn, drawn, rage filled, and despondent. The spirit had relayed everything. His attempt to make it so Jayla would allow their return. Her lack of knowledge about them, about their bond, had cut the wolf. He could feel it when Action was near.

Its ears lay against its head, four eyes closed and two staring into the distance. He relayed how Jayla felt Solas hadn’t loved her. How he had wanted to tell her the truth. To wipe away the doubt and the anger. He told Solas of her tears. Of the scent of the boy hanging around her. That was why he was here. To see for himself what his actions had wrought. It hurts as much as it did to stop touching Jayla. To stop looking at her every time she moved or spoke. To stop lying beside her, smelling her hair, feeling her skin. His eyes close and the burning sensation is ignored as he turns away. He will gather the children, who he cannot leave, no matter how many times he tries to say good bye, and take them to their lessons.

Solas doesn’t see green eyes watch him leave, doesn’t see the way they flash with anger and frustration. But, Fenris doesn’t move. He had made his last effort on Solas’ behalf. The man has clearly made his choice.

Jayla feels different. Waking wrapped up in Fenris had been – strange, not easy like it had been with Solas. There had been blushing and muttering, and they were a mess, honestly. But, they made it through, and Jayla is so grateful for Fenris having stayed with her, she makes him extra food in an attempt to convey that feeling. All it had gotten her was raised eyebrows but –

“If you don’t keep your mind still, girl, I will tan your hide. You have just a few days left to try to master the basics of foresight. It is not a magic that comes easily, especially for one not in a long line of seers. You must concentrate.” Revika growls beside Jayla, jolting her from her closed eye mind wandering.

She hangs her head and sighs. “I will do better.” There isn’t a point in saying she’s sorry. Sorry didn’t get anything done. Not here anyway. She just has to keep moving forward.

“Good. Now. Clear your mind, feel the veil, draw it into yourself, draw the Fade and let it show you what it needs you to see. Focus upon the future, on tomorrow, an hour from now.”

This is easier said than done. Revika’s line is full of seers. Every woman had the talent, regardless if they fostered it or not. Jayla – she has raw ability, but no legacy to lean back upon. Still, she does as she is told, clearing out her mind as much as possible, filing things in their proper places to be dealt with later. She breaths deeply, ignoring noises around her, the way the grass pricks at her skin, the glide of air across her upper body.

She reaches for the veil, that odd almost blanket like presence. It’s everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Magic is always just behind it, the Fade is just behind it, but it doesn’t feel like a wall. It’s as if this world is encased in a bubble. A really stretchy, self-healing if the tear is small enough) bubble. Doing these exercises for the last two days has made Jayla wonder about things.

Why was the veil so stretchy? Why didn’t the constant use of it by mages create tears like the ones she was closing. Why weren’t Circles moved at least once a century to prevent weakening of the veil. Is the veil like the ozone? Can reducing magical strain or the frequency of traumatic events help to strengthen the veil? Her brows furrow as her mind slips into a tangent.

It takes a moment, but she snaps it back into place. Snaps it back to pull the veil and fade into herself. What she doesn’t realize, is that it makes her glow. The additional magic in her aura, an aura full of ambient magic, gives off light. The light is the reaction, the magic attempting to get out again. She pulls, and pulls, and pulls until she feels ill, concentrating on the what happens next, question. Her head is swimming, and her stomach roiling, but Jayla keeps at it.

She has to. It’s what’s kept her alive the last half a year. Throwing herself at a skill until she can survive off it, continuing to throw herself at it until it becomes something she flourishes at. She is years behind the survival game Thedas plays. She has to work double time, and this is just how she accomplishes that.

Her stomach keeps rolling, threatening her, and just as Jayla is about to let go to try again, something flashes across her vision. Nothing she can make out, but something. The shock of it makes her eyes pop open, the sunlight making her groan, turning her head to the side. That makes her stomach finally rebel, and the young woman scrambles away from where she is being taught to heave. Her breakfast comes up. The whole thing taking perhaps two minutes before she’s crawling away from the mess and back to sit before Revika, using grass, carefully looked at grass, to wipe off her mouth.

The elder woman offers her a water skin that she gratefully accepts, positioning it over her mouth and pouring a mouthful in to swish and spit. She does it twice before drinking properly. “Thank you, Revika.”

“You’re welcome. Now, I’d say you had the right idea, but that will only be true if you saw anything. Nothing substantial is ever seen by someone learning the craft this old, so even if it was a glimpse, a hand gesture, a pair of eyes, that will be enough for us to move on.”

Her head shakes, and she sighs heavily. “Nothing even as substantial as that. Just – something. A movement in my vision, nothing that was recognizable, nothing that was solid.”

Revika nods, listening and thinking. Jayla may not have the talent for this. She’s got the power, more than enough from the way she is still glowing faintly. But the talent is what is missing. The mental pathway that would allow the fade to communicate with her. It is not something that can be forced usually. But Revika knows she must teach this to Jayla. She has to learn – it was important. Why? Who knows. But it is meant to happen.

“Then, we’ll do it again. There is something for you to see. Just – relax this time, do not sit taut, be as if you were laying in the ocean, floating peacefully.” Jayla’s adopted Matriarch pats her hand, an encouraging look on her face.

“All right.”

Her eyes slide closed again, and she thinks back to that part of each quarter spent every year in gym class on ‘lifetime’ skills. Yoga was always for the summer, and it always ended with people asleep on the gym floor. She focuses in on the reminders, don’t hold herself straight, let her body shift into its natural position. Her arms slacken, shoulders drooping down as she breaths in and out deeply. Each breath is something else. The muscles in her thighs, calves, toes, her stomach, her back, her shoulder blades, her neck. In the end her head is rolled forward, chin to her chest, mouth open slightly, her fingers are curled around her knees, and she looks like a limp doll. However, it helps. This time when she starts to pull, in a serene state of being, she can pull and pull and pull, until she glows like a star. Another flicker of an image. White. It’s white. She pulls more, and her stomach spasms, but she holds on, trying to get a sense of something, anything.

“Revika.”

The girl did it. She found the start of where she had to set herself. The whitehaired woman knows the moment her name is breathed out, as if the girl is asleep and speaking to a dream. But her nose scrunches in the next moment, and she is scrambling a breath later, becoming sick again. While Revika feels, they should stop, after the first day of lessons she learned Jayla wasn’t going to stop because she was uncomfortable. She harnessed the pain, let it fuel her, drive her forward.

It’s not healthy. Not by Revika’s reckoning, but what child listens to their parent in this day? Not many, and it is a damned shame. All this talk of the Maker, of gods who had turned from their people, it made people too complacent, too sure of themselves. She waits, the water skin ready, while Jayla grabs for more grass to clean her mouth off. By the end of the week there would be a bald patch. Perhaps it would be a good spot for a rabbit warren, or one of the jungle shrews. Everything given a purpose.

They start again.

Fenris catches Jayla as she stumbles for the firth time since leaving the clearing. She’s tired, drained, he can see it. She’s got an ashy cast to her, and she walks as if drunk. It annoys him that she’s pushed this far. Surely, she could see it did her no good? She’s out of his hands in a second, mumbling thanks and promptly stumbling again.

“Woman,” he growls, annoyance clear, “let me help you. You’re going to break an ankle if you keep on like this.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine.” Jayla doesn’t even look at Fenris, waving him off. The warrior growls, stalking after her. He waits, because it’s clear the woman won’t let him support her to the cabin, it’s also clear she’s not going to stay upright on her feet more than a few seconds. He’ll wait until she falters again, and then she’s being carried the rest of the way. Let her curse him, it was better than the woman having to be healed. Also, better than her having to deal with Solas for healing.

He doesn’t even have to wait that long, Jayla trips on air, and he’s got her around the middle in the same breath. With a sigh, he turns her, lifts, and sets her upon his unarmored shoulder. This was the first place in a long, long time, where Fenris had readily removed his armor. Readily left it off for casual clothing. He’s glad of it now, with the heat of her skin pressed to his shoulder. He can feel her warmth through his shirt – another sign she’s been at this too long. While Jayla didn’t run cold like Hawke – an ice and force mage – did, she didn’t run hot either. He wondered what exactly her element was.

“Pray tell, why are you carrying the Herald like a sack of grain.” The voice comes out of nowhere, and Fenris bristles. The damned mage is too quiet for his own good. Had he not been carrying Jayla, had this not been a vacation in a relatively safe part of Llomerryn, Solas would have lost his life. As it is his brands flare and Jayla makes an uncomfortable sound.

“Lemme down if you’re gonna glow. Makes me ill.” She slurs it, but Fenris has her down in an instant.

“Are you well?” He hasn’t encountered a mage who _didn’t_ enjoy the effects of his lyrium brands.

“Fine. Just. Don’t like the way Lyrium feels. Makes me go all wibbly and nauseous.” Her eyes are unfocused, and her hands hold onto Fenris’ arms. “Don’t like to take drugs. Lyrium is a drug.” She speaks as if well sauced, and Fenris blinks eyes, eyes wide at the effects on her. He grudgingly looks at the other elf.

“She’s never?”

“No. She is rather adamant about such things. She will imbibe health and restoratives, but she practically runs from Lyrium.” His mouth is a thin line, disapproval written all over him. Fenris would care, if Solas hasn’t proven himself to be the worst of the worst. As he has, Fenris simply turns away now that he has the information he needs.

“Let’s get you some water.” He turns her first, so she’s not looking at Solas, so she doesn’t see Solas, and ushers her into the house. It’s just bad luck that Jayla looks back. Her mouth purses, eyes sad, but she says nothing, turning back around.

This couldn’t possibly be any worse.

Jayla looks like death has come to haunt her. Face ashen, dark circles under her eyes. Her aura moves sluggishly, as if she has worked it over too hard. Solas doesn’t like the look or feeling of this. She has been pushing herself for two days with the old woman. And last night – Action had come to him, Rage demons of old licking at his heels. The spirit was snarling, snapping, it’s base nature overpowering its usual sentient capabilities.

It had taken hours for him to calm his other half, to bar the negative spirits from their space. When the tasks were complete, the old Wolf had laid itself down, four eyes closed, the two-open distant, tired. It had relayed all that occurred with its visit to Jayla – snarling at him when he’d moved to lay a hand upon him.

**_Do not touch me when you send us down the path of corruption_. _This is your fault!_**

Truer words have yet to be uttered. The General turned God is tired today. Tired because Action is tired. Tired because Jayla has found her anger and is leaning on someone else. Tired because his children look at him with distrust in their eyes. The smallest have no idea what is going on, but emulate the older ones. Ben and Tara, they gaze with sad angry eyes that seemingly wait for him to disappear.

He has made such a mess of a nearly idyllic life. One put together naturally, with care to the building of their friendship and mutual trust. One that happened as nature would want it to happen – without force. And he’s destroyed it. He waits until the door to the cabin is closed, and heads for the beach. The children are waiting for Jayla’s return, they need wait no longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep the tomatoes in their baskets. It WILL get better. It will. 
> 
> As always: I adore your reviews. Seriously I do. Ya'll give me life with how pissed you are at Solas and how much you love Jayla & the kids. 
> 
> Also as always: unbeta'd as balls.
> 
> Fasta vas - Common Tevene curse  
> Vashedan Bas - Trash thing  
> proditor - traitor  
> vishanti caevas - the three demons take you!  
> beseve dorus - you should be ashamed
> 
> Tevene references used: Bioware, Latin translator, Katie's Almost Totally made-up Teven Dictionary/Reference  
> Qunlat reference: Bioware


	35. A bridge to the next leg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More training, more avoidance, and a pair of quick choices that may prove problematic later.

Their guard compliment arrives the sixth day in Rivain. Jayla is still becoming ill while learning how to grasp the Fade so it will speak to her. But, it is less and less violent. Each time now it takes longer for her stomach to rebel. None of her compatriots are sure if it is because she refuses to allow it to do so, or because she is truly becoming accustomed to the magic. Even Solas doesn’t know.

For months upon months he has been the premiere source of intelligence for the advisors on the welfare of the Herald. Now the Ravens come and Solas can tell them only perfunctory things. She is learning, the village has accepted her, her magical abilities are becoming more sophisticated. There is no word given to her mental and emotional state. No insight given to the woman’s stability.

Leliana doesn’t say anything to this knowledge in response, but it is quite telling. Zevran had done much the same to the Warden. However, he at least, could be reasoned with. From the reports of her agents, Solas has become distant, like stone in the face of those who would try to convince him that this choice is the wrong one. Part of the Spy Master approves of Solas’ pragmatism. The Herald needs to focus on the Breach, on gathering them allies and soldiers enough to support the cause. Another, far older part of her feels sympathy for the young woman. Jayla is a vibrant being, full of the capacity to love, to wield magic, to forgive, to learn. To be cruel in such a manner.

It gives the Spy Master new respect for the Herald. She is resilient, and instead of allowing this to stunt her growth, to draw her from the path to save Thedas, she only walks the path more steadily. The sickness worries her. They had only just gotten the Herald into something resembling the shape a rogue should be in. Her lithe frame is well suited to shadows, but her strength was all in her legs, abdominals less than they should have been, while also still being quite impressive. They’d evened her out as spring gave way to summer.

She would skin Solas if he made them lose ground with Jayla. Shepard is the one person above all who matters the most. The entirety of the Inner Circle has been made abundantly aware of such a fact. Her life is irreplaceable, her death means the death of them all. Their lives are expendable if it will keep the Herald alive. They know this. And yet.

“You look troubled, my friend.” The gentle and familiar accent steals Leliana from her thoughts as she pets Baron plucky, the report draped in the palm of her hand.

“It would seem the fate of powerful women in this age is destined to repeat itself.”

Alarm colors the face before her. He had ever blamed himself for not taking the affection of his lover seriously. For not telling her what was in his heart. Yes, the old Crow who was once young could be reasoned with, but by then, it was too late. Isabel had resigned herself to death. Going so far as to make Alistair take the throne, and forbid him from accompany them in the final battle. She had refused her dearest friend’s attempt to save her.  Leliana sees it all play before her mind’s eye once more. Oh, how she misses, Isa.

“You cannot be sure of such things yet.” A plea meant for a past that would inevitably haunt them for the rest of their days.

“If things do not improve, she will walk herself toward death, just as our Warden did.” Leliana sighs heavily. She had to do something. Sending Zev wouldn’t help anything. The man would likely watch the situation for only moments before stabbing Solas in the back. “I need you to be my eyes, old friend. The Herald is going to Kirkwall, I am recalling the children and her...former lover and teacher. As I hear it, her bodyguard is becoming quite close to her, a support to fill the void a stupid man left behind. Keep them alive if trouble comes.”

“As you say, Leliana.” That rogue’s grin is just as pretty as it had been when they were young. How she misses those days when she was but a young woman, long before her heart turned hard. Seeing Zevran is bitter sweet.

“Go, I will send the Raven. If we are very lucky, the distance will heal new wounds.”

It is their last day in Rivain, and Jayla is sitting with Revika again. This time, Fenris has accompanied them, sitting a respectful distance away. He watches as Jayla consumes power from the Fade. He can feel it, the magic sliding along his brands. It isn’t painful, like the magic used in battle beside him, or what hits him in the same situation, this is – almost gentle. He is fascinated by the way she consumes, and consumes, and _consumes_ from the Fade, her skin shimmering, the air around her warping.

His Mistress, for that’s what she is now, the woman he protects, that he answers to – of his own volition, is a powerful creature. He watches as the old woman watches, and they flinch subtly when her eyes fly open, no white in sight.

The bottomless depths that are her eyes are trained on Revika. For once the old woman looks uncomfortable, an ashen cast to her face, bright eyes holding worry in them. They both wait for her to say something, anything at all, with baited breath. It’s for not, Jayla soon tosses herself away from them, eyes clearing as she scrambles to empty her stomach. It’s been this way for several hours now. Several days, really. The woman pushes and pushes and pushes.

The warrior knows why, it is the same reason any warrior trains until they break and then trains some more. She needs the skill. Even so, Fenris is up on his feet, water skin in hand, grabbing her hair so she won’t get sick in it. His hold on her hair is loose, no pull in it, and he kneels to the side of her, slightly back. It’s a throwback that he doesn’t think about. Something so ingrained it happens and his mind doesn’t register it. Something that isn’t noticed.

No one notices it save for hooded blue eyes that watch from a safe distance. Solas could feel Jayla’s magic swirling, prodding, growing. In the days she’s trained, she has ripped the ‘muscle’ of her magic extensively, forcing it to heal over stronger. It is not a healthy thing to do. He’s known it to be a healthy practice, but not with the ferocity Jayla does it. He wonders, quietly, while teaching the children, if she has always hurt herself to get ahead.

He wonders if they aren’t more similar than he’s given them both credit for. It is in moments like this, when he feels the strain of her spirit, and spying glimpses of her dreams, he wonders if he has made a mistake. She is hurting, that is more than clear to him, but she is also growing exponentially. Something that he can deem worth the pain that he’s foisted upon her. Not only that, she has a champion now. The snowy elf won’t leave her side, and his look alone warns people away.

He's watched that too. It sickens him, to see the way they walk together, different from the way he and she had walked together but similar just the same. The man child walks a step behind her, to on her left side. He defers to her. The spot on her right, where he had walked, stays empty.

Solas knows these actions to be ones of a slave, but the boy, Fenris, he does not quail or make himself meek beside her. He stands tall, seems freer than when they first met. He is becoming comfortable in his skin. Such changes in so few days.

But that is the Herald’s innate magic. She makes the whole world change simply by being present. She will turn the tides of history with her choices. She already has. What could ever bring this glorious woman low? Nothing, he wagers, watching her as her coiled hair is untied, the pair reluctantly splitting. Fenris joins with the hunters, and Jayla accompanies Revika.

“Come on, child. Let’s wash the sweat and sick from you.” The pair of women disappear into Revika’s house. It’s impressive, the thatched roof and space enough for multiple rooms. Together they gather bathing supplies and leave once more, heading out into the forest. There is a hot spring in the forest’s deeper parts, one Revika knows well. She’d shown Jayla just yesterday.

A raven lights upon a stump near the group of children and their teachers, Solas among them. It caws, a beady eye focused on him when the head shifts. There isn’t need for further prompting, the elven mage lets the other male take over the lesson, and stands to retrieve he message. What he finds inside is surprising – and more than a little worrying. He’s being called back, the children as well. Jayla and Fenris are to make their way to Kirkwall on horseback from the port on the mainland with Rickson as their guard for the duration of the stay.

He doesn’t like it. Being out of her sight makes him antsy even thinking about it. Action prowls, agitated just under the mage’s skin. There is too much opportunity for Fenris now, in the spirit’s mind. The thought filters to Solas and he finds himself appreciating the missive more. If Jayla becomes attached to Fenris, romantically, then she is free of him. He is free to walk his path.

Without thought, Solas finds a scrap of paper and quill, penning a quick affirmative to the Spy Mistress before tying it to the crow’s foot to send off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter is short. I almost lost muse and about had a heart attack! But another prompt woke Jayla up while Boudicca and Etaine yell for attention. So there's that I suppose. 
> 
> <3 to my commenters, you guys are the best.


	36. That Fucker (Briefed by Ravens, Andraste's tits!)

Varric Tethras knows something is wrong the moment he spies four horses instead of more than a dozen riding into Kirkwall from way of Starkhaven. He knows the issue is serious when he sees a snow-capped head, a brunette, and a helmeted head in addition to the face of his illustrious leader. Not a single bald head among them. This is quite possibly the fastest he’s ever known a relationship to go downhill for a hero other than Ava.

Ava who mended her heart by attaching herself to an equally broken soul. If he weren’t blonde, he’d be grey already. These women in his life are more than enough to drive him there. More than enough to drive him to an early grave too. But, there is no use in making assumptions. Things could be better than they seem. Maybe the kids got sent home to avoid possible targeting by highwaymen, maybe the kids just didn’t take to vacation like they’d hoped they would. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe doesn’t give him anything to stand on in preparing for Jayla’s arrival.

It takes all of a quarter mark for them to pull up beside the livery. Their horses are the epitomy of nondescript, Rivaini workhorses, tall as they are long, without any kind of dressing to name them Inquisition. Even the guard riding with Jayla doesn’t have the usual orange tabard with the Inquisition seal on it. They’re all very normal until Varric lays eyes on his rather dear friend. Protégé perhaps.

She’s – bright. The stark white of her tattoos makes her nearly glow, the gold making her eyes stand out as surely as it stands out alone. And her hair – she cut one side of it clear off just below the parietal ridge. The Herald is a wild woman, a wild mage. She was before the tattoos and piercings, but now she radiates that wild nature.  And her clothes! That’s Rivaini through than through. Light fabrics, sleeveless, dress hitting her knees with slits up the side.

Varric didn’t realize that Isabella dressed properly for her people. He’s going to have to talk to Red to make sure she doesn’t liken Jayla to Isabella. That would be more than problematic. “Princess! Welcome to Kirkwall, the shittiest town in Thedas – but it’s my town.”

The joviality injected into his voice garners him a quirked brow from Fenris. Fenris who dismounts in seconds, handing the reigns off to one of the Livery boys before rounding Jayla’s horse and offering her help down. Fenris who lets a mage’s hands settle on his forearms supports her on the way down. Who smiles at the stoic woman for a fleeting moment. A real smile, an indulgent smile.

“Hey, Varric. Maybe you shouldn’t bill your town as the shittiest place on Thedas. That’s got to hurt the tourist trade.” Her words are quick, lips quirking into an almost smile. Her hands slide down Fenris’ unarmored forearms before flinging open to Varric. “Well, Papa-Dwarf, what do you think?”

He chokes on the notion of _papa dwarf_ , but gives his friend a good once over. Her adornments are stark against her deep onyx skin. They make her exotic, mysterious, almost forbidding in her presence. She is wholly something else now. Not easily mistaken for a Marcher of even a Fereleden or Tevinter. She’s completely Rivaini. A hedge witch of the warmer climes.

“You look like you’re going to make Chantry sisters choke and Templars rethink their vows.” He emphasizes the pronouncement with a low bow, topped with a flourish of a hand out beside him while one rested on his heart. “You’re every inch the Princess now.”

Fenris sees Jayla swell with delight at the pronouncement. Clearly, Varric has a spot in her heart. The man has an uncanny ability to make friends, an even more uncanny ability to find women who have tragedy in their hearts and provide comic relief to them. Not that Fenris is willing to admit he is the cause of at least part of one woman’s pain. His hands slide from her waist, hiding how reluctant he is to part from flawless and supple skin.

Ever since that first night when she had cried, he’s been at her side. Solas had left without a word the last day of their trip, spiriting away her children while leaving Rickson to explain his absence. To say the young Herald was angry would be to say Kirkwall was not the most cheerful of cities. A gross understatement. Yet, it was what she needed.

Solas had walked away from her, and she was loath to chase him. He made his choice. They could have been something, but she’s likely written her own fate by constantly telling herself they were fire and oil. Still, the reprieve from him, is welcome. She hurts, her heart squeezes tightly every time she thinks his name, but that will heal.

It has to heal.

Fenris helps. He is steadfast in his chosen duty of being her bodyguard. Nearly as steadfast as Eric has become. She greatly values their presence, the bawdy stories from Eric around campfires, Fenris’ quiet presence that comforts her. For a woman who has been alone for years, she needs these two more than she’d like to admit.

“You know, I think that means I need a new nickname.”

“No way,” Varric looks aghast at the mere suggestion. A new nickname! “You’re the Inquisition’s Princess and that won’t ever change. If anything, you’re going to solidify the title. Trust me, I’m a writer, I know these things.”

That makes her laugh, a real laugh, one she hasn’t let loose since dancing with Fenris. It seems so silly, so many days of being dour, now swept away. Swept into the past because the future can’t tolerate them. Won’t allow it. Jayla smirks, slinging an arm around Varric’s shoulders. Her daggers are at her thighs, tucked into her armored boots, they clink gently as she moves. “Show me this town of yours, Bard, and we’ll conduct our business with haste. I don’t feel like doing anything but getting drunk for the next seven nights.”

The looks shot at her range from mild interested and worry to outright concern. Fenris is so cautious of her now. It was a mistake to let him see her cry, but at the same time, who else can she trust with that pain? Precious few now. Her companions walk her through Hightown, with the snow haired elf and storyteller pointing out places of great repute or interest to her. She’s shown the crater of the chantry, which is slowly being filled in, the home of Hawke, the Viscount’s keep. The keep she’s shown the inside of, and meets the Guard Captain.

That redhead is a trip, and Jayla isn’t sure if that means she loves her or hates her. To be fair, the redhead didn’t look like she knew what to make of the Earth turned Rivaini woman either. This would take drinks to sort out. In Vino Veritas, after all.

Hightown isn’t bad, it’s cleaner than expected, considering a year ago this was ground zero for the beginning of the Mage-Templar war. There are people whitewashing and painting all over the place, rubble is either piled neatly in allies or still actively being removed. The houses nearest the chantry are the most heavily damaged, but even they show signs of repair.

But as the group descends into Lowtown, a new side of the city in unveiled. One that makes Jayla’s teeth grind. Here there are few signs of rebuilding, building damaged by magic stand like broken sentries. There are few stalls open and hawking wares, where the Hightown market had been nearly bustling. Children play with stones and wear rags here. There is more than one prostitute doing her thing near badly lit alleyways. Honest work in a dirty town.

Again, she’s shown the points of interest. The former Qunari Compound, half destroyed still, gates hanging limply open. The docks, where the smell of fish and death are so heavy the Herald actually covers her nose. She is shown in the distance the Gallows, slave pen and mage prison. Perhaps she should just think of it as a slave pen, from the stories, mage prison isn’t exactly accurate.

“You look like you’d be in favor of burning this whole place to the ground.” Fenris’ tenor makes her blink, the scowl on her face, ever deepening, relaxes for a few moments. Burn this place to the ground? Yes. It needs it.

“It would improve it, if anything.” Her words are quiet, and those umber eyes do not miss how Varric’s head turns to her sharply. “There’s pain here, a lot of it, and such an imbalance of power between Hightown and Lowtown. I barely see any guards here, but in Hightown they are practically swarming!”

Neither man misses the scowl on her face, or the way her hands come to be fists before she forces herself to let go. Her eyes close and she takes a deep breath. “Let’s….just keep moving.”

Varric is hesitant to do so. He’d wanted her to meet Daisy, but when Jayla sets eyes on the Alienage she might actually burn things. His eyes cut to Fenris, who gives a shrug in response. He clearly doesn’t know Jayla that well yet. Heaving a dramatic sigh, Varric takes the lead again.

“Now, Princess. Realize that what I’m about to show you is the same everywhere – or just about. Some are far better and some are even worse than this.” He is hedging, hesitant, worried. All things Jayla picks up in his body language, where his eyes won’t meet hers, and his shoulders are hunched just a touch. There’s a nervous twitch of fingers he doesn’t usually have either.

“This isn’t instilling confidence in me, Varric.” Her lips are a thin line, but she walks on. Lowtown is worse than any low-income project she’d ever had the displeasure of seeing. And living in the city like she did, she’s seen some pretty shitty places. And it just gets worse as they wind through the side streets of Kirkwall. It’s as if whatever Varric is showing her, was hidden, like the people of the city didn’t want anyone to see this. It makes her hands clench and her heart beat unsteadily.

What in the hell could be back here? Her frame becomes increasingly tense as they move farther into Lowtown. She’s ready to burst at the seams when they finally descend into …

“Fucking a, it’s a ghetto.” Her mouth drops open, eyes wide, taking in everything while her mind whirls in disbelief. Why? Who lived _here_? It’s arguably clean, but it’s cramped. Small buildings squished together to make room for one another. There is no aesthetic here. Even the tree, with its long reaching limbs has a quality of poverty to it.

Varric cringes, Fenris’ face is dour as Jayla steps into the square of the Alienage. This would be the worst of Lowtown at least. But Darktown. They look at one another uneasily and then hear the strangled gasp of the Herald. Her eyes are trained on the children who have rounded a corner out of an alley that is almost completely hidden. They are malnourished, with eyes that have an alienlike quality to them. Little bellies round. They are laughing, playing, but Jayla looks like she’s been stabbed.

Her head swivels, looking at the ghetto again. What she finds makes her start to shake. _Elves_ , every single person here is an elf. It’s an alienage. Her face flies open in horror. This is an alienage, like the one in Val Royeaux! They had gone to the elven seamstress there. How did she miss it? Why was she blind to _this_?! This level of mistreatment is unconscionable, and she had barely acknowledged it. How could she be so blind.

A reedy wail makes her flinch, and she wraps her arms around herself. This – why is this allowed to happen? Why are the elves just shoved here? Her face is tight with anger and sorrow as she starts to walk. There are stalls here, various things. From trinkets to produce, elves sell their wares to their people. The prices are laughable. The prices make her want to weep.

“Princess.” A large hand wraps around her elbow. She keeps walking, practically dragging him with her. She goes to the tree, it’s got paintings on it, gifts around the base. What is it for?

“Tell me about the tree.”

“I can’t.” He flinches at the look thrown his way. She’s crying, and doesn’t even realize it. Jay has tear trails down her face, and a look so hard that Curly would quail in front of her right now. This had been a mistake. Bringing her into the Alienage when she has such a kinship with Elves was a terrible idea. Varric knew it at the start, and certainly knows it now. But, he couldn’t not show this to her, either.

Jayla, much as he loves the Princess, wants to take on the world but doesn’t see how impossible her task is. This, this might help her realize she can only do so much. He hates it. Hates the Alienages, Lowtown, Darktown. It had been a hard-won lesson for him to hate them, too. Before, they’d just been places, and these had just been lots in life. Now. Well, Daisy gets money to help for a reason.

“They call it the _Vhenadahl_ , tree of the People is what the blood witch calls it.” Fenris steps up to Jay’s left, his expression as somber as ever. “She told us about it once. We were trekking along the ­storm coast, couldn’t get her to shut up. But, I did learn about this.”

Her eyes settle on him, deep umber orbs that bid him tell her what it means. He sighs, looking at the tree, recalling the words. “According to Merrill, each city alienage has a Ha’hren, an elder like her Keeper, who guides the elves. Vhenadahl are their responsibility, a symbol of Arlathan, the first homeland with roots reaching deep and branches reaching ever to the sky. She said the former Ha’hren knew it’s importance, the meager connection left to the old ways and gods, and passed it to her.”

“Varric! Fenris!” A jubiliant voice rises over the din of the city, making Jayla tear her eyes away from Fenris, from the tree. A woman of perhaps thirty or maybe even forty approaches them, big eyes in a small face, green gems set in a pale face with delicately tipped ears. This must be Merrill.

“Hey Daisy. Long time.” Varric shifts uneasily, but smiles for the woman who approaches with a bright smile. It’s so strange for him to see her like this – responsible for a whole city’s worth of elves. He remembers when she got lost trying to go home from the Hanged man. A hug is exchanged between them before he moves away from her, a hand sweeping toward Jayla.

“Daisy, meet Princess. Princess, this is Daisy.”

The nickname prompts the Herald to roll her eyes, but she steps forward with a tight smile, strain telegraphed with every moment, and offers her hand to Merrill. “Please, just call me Jayla or Jay, lord knows someone has to use my actual name.”

“Oh! Hello, very nice to meet you. Varric’s written about you, you know. Is it true? You’ve an Elven lover and a pack of elven babies?”

That was not what Jayla had been expecting, and she almost flinches away from the questions. Instead, she stands tall, forces herself to relax and chuckles when a small calloused hand takes hers. Merrill’s grip is more impressive than her slight frame suggests, and Jayla respects her just a touch more now. “I have elven children in my care, yes. Eldest is almost eight, the youngest are three.”

“Why would you?” The Dalish Ha’hren’s brows pull together, making her facial tattoo wrinkles. “No one takes in elven children, not even other elves. Well, some are taken, but only for servants, not to raise. At least not in the city. The Dalish do, if they can prove themselves useful and a boon to the clan.”

That makes Jayla freeze up. Her eyes are wide and Varric cringes while Fenris snarls. The herald’s mind is a jumble of thoughts, questions, horrified cries and rage. No one took in elven children? They were only useful as servants?!

“They needed someone, and I won’t forsake innocent lives just because they have pretty ears.” Her words are harsh, bitten out, taking Merrill by surprise. This one is different. Hawke had tried, a bit, to help some of the elves here, but Ava was more worried about keeping Carver alive, and then she had to deal with Qunari, and _then_ she had to save the city from itself. Didn’t leave much time for her to deal with the Alienage.

“Mythal’s blessing upon you, Lethallan. Anyone who cherishes life as you do is welcome here. Come on, come have some tea. I made biscuits today, so there won’t be any weevils to deal with!”

“Weevils?!”

 

Solas was glad to be back in Ferelden, the children running around his legs. The distance, physical distance, was good. He could think again. Action couldn’t see Jayla at least not while they are awake and it had calmed him somewhat. The children are enough to take his mind off just about anything as it is.

The Inquisition he returns to is a colder one, however. It would seem, the news of his separation from the Herald has spread. The Qunari eyes him carefully, a look of near disgust on his face. Cassandra will not speak to him, nor will the Archer, Sera. Of which he is glad, but when he returns to his old cabin, it is filled with snakes.

Madame Vivienne makes a pointed comment that now the Herald has gotten over her moment of insanity, they could use her availability to their advantage. She could be married. A political move that would secure her a spot to further enact change. It makes his stomach roll, and he is more than happy the Commander points out no Mage may hold a position of power within society as it stands, may hold no title. But of course, Leliana points out that Herald of Andraste is a far weightier title than Arlessa or Teryna could ever be.

His life grinds into a series of pointed comments and quiet rumors. The children are, by the grace of the spirits, kept from such words. They still are treated kindly, perhaps more so now, as Jayla is their only guardian in the eyes of the Inquisition and its people. A fact that sets his teeth on edge and makes his magic prickle along his fingertips. Treated better by virtue of a _human_ ’s protection. Such things are an affront to the People. But, he stays silent, and goes about his work. He returns to the façade of an unassuming hedge mage. It is a welcome and lonely respite.

 

“Isabella!” Jay jumps from her seat on the bench at one of the many tables of the Hanged Man. She’s tipsy, cheeks rosy and eyes brighter than they ought to be for it being near midnight. It’s clear they’ve been playing Wicked Grace and the pirate captain is all too happy to join in.

“Hello Sweetthing. You look ravishing, I must say. The tapestry I can see is well done, and those piercings, tell me, what others do you have we can’t see.”

Varric rolls his eyes as he sees Rivaini sidle up to the Princess with a predator’s grace. The woman is insatiable and incorrigible. But, it’s part of her charm, and he’ll never say a word against her for that part of her life. He raises his brows when the Herald climbs over the table to get to Isabella’s side and sits herself between Rickson and Fenris.

Both men blink, and do their damnedest to keep their eyes on their cards. But, his darling Princess has completely embraced Rivaini culture, and added her own home culture into her wardrobe. Gone are the practical winter clothes. It’s warm here, where Ferelden is frigid. She’s taken to scandalous skirts and skin baring tops.

But tonight? She’s swathed in vibrant turquoise, delicate slippers on her feet, a top that looks more like a breast band but adorned with some kind of bauble making it shiny and eye catching. Her bottoms – he doesn’t know what to make of them. They’re inappropriate, yet utterly Jayla. Sheer, slit on the sides so every time she moves her legs are shown to the world, and underthings to keep her modesty intact. Not that Varric is sure Jayla even worries about that. Her lack of worry over people seeing her body is nearing a legendary status among the Inquisition who’ve seen her dance.

“Oh look at you, pet. You’re resplendent tonight. Wherever did you get those clothes?” Bella takes hold of the younger woman’s hands, lifting and spreading her arms to get a better look at the outfit. Beautiful, and wasted on a place like the Hanged Man. Not that the pirate is complaining, after all she gets to see this gorgeous sight.

“Had them made the yesterday! There’s a woman in the alienage, her clothes are beautiful, I asked if she could make me something and she had them to me by nightfall. I think I want her to make all my clothes.” The young woman grins unabashedly, while Fenris looks a bit like he’s swallowed his tongue. No one present can blame him, they’ve all seen how he looks at her.

Varric doesn’t like the way Fenris looks at Jayla. That’s an understatement, actually, he despises the way Fenris looks at Jayla. Despises the fact Jayla insisted she and Fenris _share_ a room. What is it with women and elves who break hearts?! He is soured yet again when Fenris’ eyes flirt with Jayla’s form.

“Lucky girl, dressing the Herald of Andraste so finely. I must say I agree with you. She should make all your clothes, and you should come be my first mate. We’ll rule the seas together, sweetthing, just you wait and see.” Isabella is flirting, but harmless. Varric isn’t worried about her. Of all of them, Isabella understands the Herald’s commitment to her wayward apostate. Not that Varric knows that.

“Ohh, we could be sirens, luring lusty men to their detriment. No killing unless they try to kill us first, though.”

A warm laugh washes over Jay and she grins. Isabella – she doesn’t know that Solas has left her, and it’s good to be treated normally. Rickson has been tiptoeing around her. Fenris snarls at anyone who looks at her sideways, and Varric is Varric. He hadn’t trusted Solas from the get go apparently. Would that he’d’ve told her that before she let the man squirrel his way into her heart.

“You’re certainly beautiful enough to be a siren, sweet thing. I dare say you’ve snared a few men already.” Those watchful eyes slide to the two men who are stiffer than boards on either side of the little Herald. A Herald without inhibitions today, because she smirks, eyeing her boys and shrugs.

“I don’t mind the attention. Neither of them will do anything, they’re mine already and they know it.” Gods, bedding Rickson would be like bedding her brother. It makes her shudder unhappily. Fenris… Well, she’s not walking down that road. He’s a good friend, no matter his attraction to her. She values that immensely in the wake of the Solas disaster.

“Let’s dance, Isa. I’m sure you know how.”  There’s a wickedness in that smile that Isabella can’t ignore. Apparently, there are hidden depths to the little woman she’d ferried to Llomerryn. She’d hoped there might be, so this is a treat.

“Of course, I do. The question is, what sort of dancing are we doing, and where are we going to find music to do so.”

Her eyes widen when Jayla bites her lip and music threads into the air around them. It’s no music she’s ever heard, and the Pirate Queen has been many, many places around Thedas. More than some wealthy nobles could even boast about. She’s mesmerized for a few moments before small hands grabbing at hers break her reverie.

“Come on, Admiral, I’ll teach you how _my_ people dance.”

She’s all legs that woman, something Eric hadn’t really even thought to notice before this evening. Yes, he’s traveled at her side from the beginning, watched her progress from non-combatant to reluctantly proficient, and heard her nightmares take unreal turns. But to see her dressed like this? He isn’t sure what to make of her, or how to really look at her.

He isn’t blind, the woman is beautiful. It’s her soul that makes her shine, the physical attributes just her casing. Still, when she crawls over the table dressed like the Rivaini she is, and sits down between himself and Ser Fenris, it’s hard to ignore those physical attributes. She’s all tone and butter smooth skin. She smells like orange blossoms on a hot day and it’s impossible to not notice these things.

His Herald is his superior, he is her protector and this is utterly unprofessional. Noticing her like this is wrong. Others may feel fine looking upon their charges as women, but Eric is not. Acknowledging her as a woman makes his job harder. Keeping her as the Herald in his mind, an unattainable figure too holy to look upon with desire, that he can handle.

Jayla Shepard, he cannot. He doesn’t want to bed her. Far far from it. It’s a bit like catching your older sister in her smalls. That’s the feeling curling in his gut right now. The same feeling that settles on his shoulders every time someone does look at her with lust in their eyes. They don’t speak often, he and Jayla, but they do have a quiet sort of relationship. The same he’d shared with his actual flesh and blood siblings. Granted, they are all male, but the principle is the same. So, the distress he feels seeing her legs – no her legs to the point he knows it’s her hips, is normal.

“Kid, you look downright horrified.”

“It’s. Her. I.” Eric stumbles to find an answer suitable to Varric’s comment. In the end, he hangs his head helplessly. “She’s the Herald, my charge. I am not comfortable with her being so close and showing that much skin.”

“You know she’s single, right?” Yeah, Varric got briefed on the situation with baldy. Briefed by Raven jus this morning. That fucker.

“Maker’s ass, Tethras! I don’t. No. Just. Ugh. No. I would never!”

“Oh, I get it now. It’s weird seeing her as a person rather than someone you’re meant to keep safe.” That has garnered the attention of the elf beside him and Eric wants to groan. That man has a glare the likes of which there is no equal. Protective is not a strong enough word to describe the bastard sword wielder.

“Sort of. She’s – she’s like an elder sibling. Someone to keep safe, someone you would rather not see the legs of.”

Varric cracks up, hearing the Templar boy have a verbal moment over the Herald. Jay would crack up too if she could see him. His face is scrunched in horror, eyes too wide, mouth confused in its grimace. He will never be interested in her. Which, thank the fucking Maker for that. Jay needs someone to keep her steady, to keep an eye on her while in the field.

All of them, every single person except perhaps the newest additions to the Inner Circle, are too close. Varric, he thinks of Jay like a daughter. Protégé, friend, just like Ava is. Well, more so with Jay than Ava, mainly because Jayla fights like a rogue, and Ava is consumed in her magic. Anyone with eyes can see the way Fenris looks at the dreadlocked dancer, though. He is already in too deep to be considered objective. Solas – Andraste’s tits – Solas is so far from objective it’s painful. Cassandra too. That woman may try to hide it, but Jayla is like her kid sister. His hands run over his face as he laughs.

Yeah. They’re all too damn caught up in Jayla to save her from herself.


	37. Trouble on the Horizon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow ya'll. Your reviews keep me going. Food for the soul, and I thank you for them! Thanks for sticking with this, it's about to get longer, possibly more drawn out, and a rocky ride.

This isn’t music that anyone’s heard, not Rickson, not Varric, certainly not the rest of them. It’s straight club music, remixed instrumentals and pauses with a single lyric being repeated over and over. This is what Jayla needs. She wants to lose herself, to feel complete even when she’s a little ragged at the edges. Her teaching Isabella lasts all of five seconds.

“Oh Princess, I know this dance, I know it well.” There’s a lascivious smirk one the older, taller woman’s lips, and Jayla just returns it. Returns it and throws herself into the music. It’s equal parts innocent, and provocative. Isabella knows how to move; this dance is older than time it would seem. A dance that emulates and alludes to what a person might do in a bedroom.  

That the bar is rather dimly lit only works in their favor. Candle and torch light licks up their legs, their arms, keeps their faces half shadowed. Neither particularly care that the conversations, a dull roar usually, are dying down. Neither woman does more than laugh or smirk when a new set of eyes settles on them.

Isabella does learn how to match her movements to the flow of the music, and the woman who’s deadly normally is doubly so now. If Jayla was the type, she’d be after Isa like white on rice. But, she’s not, and that is probably a good thing right at this moment. Keeps her out of more trouble. Not that the look on Fenris’ face is really keeping herself out of trouble. The look on his face, that rapt attention, it makes her feel wicked and she desperately wants to torture that man.

A cruel thought. One she can’t shake out of her head. There’s a dark part of her that wants to entertain Fenris, to give him what he wants. A childish part that says to make her former lover jealous with a new one. Jayla responds to both ideas by plastering herself along Isabella’s back, willing the music louder. She won’t do that to her friend, she won’t use him, she won’t hurt him. Pain begets pain, and it’s a cycle she refuses to be party to.  So, she sets her hands-on Isabella’s hips, matching her movements, the way her hips slide and swivel in the blessedly dim lighting.

Varric is about ready to have a damn heart attack.  Of all the bars in Thedas to dance in, to dance like _that_ of course Jayla chooses the seediest one of them all. At least. At least the Pirate has her blades on her, strapped to her thighs. Really, the only reason he’s watching at all, is to watch the people watching them.

If there weren’t eyes on Jayla, on Bella, he’d not give them a second look. Not anymore. That woman is too close to him to be looked at with lust. Way too damn close. It’s a skin crawl inducing thought. Lust after the Princess? Perish the damn thought. He’d sooner sleep with a darkspawn.

“You’re gonna spill your drink.” His voice is low, menacing as he watches Fenris. The man hasn’t looked at anything like that in the years he’s known the warrior. It’s upsetting. There is a naked kind of desire in those eyes that are usually so harsh.

 

Irina is glad that the Herald will only be gone a few more days. The children are in a right state, and the tensions of the camp are beginning to grow. Twice now, the Elf that’d been Master of the house has been attacked. Twice! In fact, the attacks elves must endure have doubled since the Herald’s been gone. She herself has tended to the bruises and wounds of maids who’d been accosted by the townsmen or a few of the guards.

It is worrying, more than worrying if she tells the absolute truth. The children are under guard, she is under guard, Lady Nightingale has her people watching and listening, but no one is talking. Whoever has a grudge against elves, they’re hiding it well, and striking quicker than the spies are able to find them.

“Lady Montilyet, your wards are here for their lesson.” The tawny woman grins, brushing strands of hair from her face when she looks up to see Irina fill the doorway.

“Excellent, come in little ones. Come in! Now, tell me, who has remembered our last lesson?”

Irina moves from the door way as the small ones begin to answer the Ambassador. It wouldn’t be long until they need proper tutors, more people pour into Haven, and the Ambassador has her work cut out for her. Eldhru tugs at the Nanny’s hand, and she looks down at the child to find her lip caught between her teeth, worry on her face.

“Little Miss, what is it?”

A little hand, shaking, points. Her eyes follow it, and they widen upon taking in the scene forming before her. She pushes the little mages behind her, bidding them to go find the elder mage, a guard, anyone. None of them get far before soft cries fill the deserted part of Haven.

 

This young woman is quite a delight. He’s never seen such clothing before, nor movement masquerading as dance. She’s fluid, graceful in an extreme to his eyes. Clearly a rogue, and clearly a dancer as Leliana said. What a wonder, and she is the Herald of a chaste religion. Zevran chuckles into his ale. Chaste indeed.  

His eyes settle on her guard, the shock of white hair and all black. A beauty to be sure, Antivan coloring, or perhaps that is simply the way all elves of the north look, he certainly has not become any paler for all he resides in the south away from the reach of the Crows. It’s interesting to watch the dancer and her guard.

The youngest man at the table refuses to watch the pirate and holy woman, that must be the Templar. The dwarf is clearly protective of her, but the elven man, he is half in love with her. Lust in his eyes, but restrained. Like he knows he can’t have her. That is not the man she was bedding, can’t be.

Sharp eyes settle once more on the dark beauty moving as sinuous as a snake on her makeshift dance floor. There is something about her that calls to people. Just like his Warden. Just like that Champion. What is it about the human women of this age? What power have they been given so they might wind men and nations around their fingers?

Zevran is curious, so much so he decides to place himself within the party’s orbit. It will, after all, give him a clearer line of sight to his mark, the one he’s meant to keep alive. And, it will serve him to figure her out. Sliding from the shadows he is quick to plaster himself against Isabella, just as the dark temptress removes herself with a half twirl toward her elf.

“Zev!” Isabella smirks, he can see it as she tilts her head up to look at him just slightly. The smirk on his lips is familiar, sinful is what others have called in the past. To him – it is simply the way the muscles in his face settle when he wills them to.

“Carina, it has been a long time.”  His reply is murmured into her ear, and his hands trace her hips. Isabella is perhaps his best and longest friend. Ironic, in that he met her when a contract was placed on her life. Just like the Warden, or the Warden was just like her. In that respect only, of course.

“Should I ask why you’re here?” A hand places itself on his cheek, fingers calloused palm covered in leather. He leans into it, chuckling softly.

“Protection, a little bird sent me here.”

“Mm.” Isabella’s eyes shift to the young woman who dances alone. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what little bird sent a crow to protect someone. The Herald was catching eyes, then, making enemies without even doing anything. “You could lift her spirits, you know.”

He snorts, pulling away from the self-styled admiral and giving her a spin before they are pressed chest to chest. “I think not, Carina. If I touched that girl for any purpose but pulling her from danger I think I may very well lose my hands if not my life.” His head indicates the table of men who watch the Princess with a weather eye.

“Fenris won’t do anything, they have…something, but not that. Her man, I ferried him and her adopted wards home. He was happy to be away. I don’t think you’ve any competition.”

“Do I not?” Zevran raises a brow shaking his head. Perhaps  - no. He was working, he has been changing over the years, little by little. Influences from beyond the grave no doubt. The three continue today well into the night until Jayla is exhausted. When she looks ready to drop, Fenris is there, scooping her into his arms, and walking resolutely from the Hanged Man. Zevran slips out behind them and Isabella is left with Varric.

“I’m not even going to ask, Rivaini.”

“You always were smart, Varric.”

 

Haven is in a state. Seven have gone missing. Tara, Corrado, Delphine, Mael, Aeliana, Eldrhu and Varnehn. Of all the people to be let down, it had to be the Herald’s children. Innocents who have already been failed once before by the Inquisition.

For the first time, Cullen is truly worried about what will happen if Jayla is made aware of the situation. Bad enough Solas looks ready to annihilate the entirety of the town. He’s never, never seen a man so cold in his life. And the former Knight-Captain has seen quite a bit in his time here on Thedas.

“The guard patrols have tripled, how is the woman, Irina?” He sounds haggard, his hair in disarray, eyes circled with dark purple. If they do not find these children…

“Irina is recovering. The healers are sure she will not suffer any memory loss, she’s been able to answer their questions. She remembers her name, the date, where she is, whom she works for. We have some hope if the patrols turn up nothing.” Josephine speaks softly, her usually warm complexion bordering on white. All of them look disturbed truth be told. Cullen can’t fault a single one of them beyond himself for this. Leliana had people watching the Herald’s home. People who are now dead.

Had he just stationed more guards than the four patrols, perhaps this wouldn’t have happened. Children. He failed children all because of a petty squabble. His hands press against the war table.

“Leliana, have your agents been able to catch a trail yet?”

“No. It is as if they were plucked from the bridge leading into Haven and spirited away.” Of them all, Leliana is the one who is angriest. Mage children, who were supposed to be safe, some of the safest children in this town, in Thedas, are now in danger. Her people are dead, and the strawberry blond man has no doubt she lays the deaths of her agents at his feet. Rightfully so.

“We must tell the Herald.”

“Are you mad?” His voice is sharp, strangled. “If we tell her, she will come back. That is perhaps a two day journey should she not rush. These are her children, Maker knows what lengths she will go to, to return here in haste. And when she arrives, what shall we tell Lady Shepard? That we have no idea where the children are? That we failed them, most of all myself. We cannot alienate her now. You have given us the reports from Rivain. She’s becoming a mage of no small amount of talent, Leliana.”

“I am well aware of our failings, Commander.” Ice crawls down his spine when the Nightingale speaks. Because this is not Leliana anymore, this is the woman who carried out the Divine’s darkest orders. “But to hide it from her is worse. We cannot afford to alienate her, you’re right, but we also cannot wait for her to return. Another six days? Seven or Eight with her travel time? They could be dead.”

“Maker’s breath, Leliana! Don’t say such things.” Josephine looks ready to faint, and Cullen can’t blame her. Everyone knows Jayla is protective of her brood. Everyone. Which is the problem, there is not a soul within Haven that isn’t aware of the Herald’s choice to take in and make her own a pack of elven children. Those within the Hinterlands, within Highever also are aware. The amount of people who know is vast.

She’s gotten slack because she is human, because she is an exotic Rivaini noble by all accounts. But, even her humanity and nobility cannot stay all hands. Clearly.

“She’s right to say it, Ambassador. If we do not act, the chances of recovering them alive dwindle. Send your ravens, Leliana, our people have two tasks now, to find seven mageling elves and to help stabilize regions in need. Ambassador, begin to feel out the nobles who have made their visits to us, and those who have yet to. We must know who are our allies in truth and who is putting up a front. Enlist Madam Vivienne, she’s got sway with the Orlesians, we best use it.”

“The Iron Bull,” Leliana cuts in, moving in and out of the candle light. “We’ll utilize him and his network. It’s far vaster than ours, and if it is slavers who took them, the Qunari might be better equipped to catch hold of them.”

“Sera’s Red Jennys.” Josephine sighs out the words, almost loathe to include the archer, but knowing they will have more information if they do. “They get information from the most unlikely of sources, I will ask her to spread word of the children that are missing. Discretion is our greatest weapon here. We must not let on these are the Herald’s children missing, but those of our people. If it is known they’re hers, we might never find them. They will be killed or held ransom at the very least.”

“Agreed.”

 

Jayla wakes up warm, but cold at the same time. There is a musty smell in the air that has her turning into the warmth. That smells clean, with just a touch of salt, of sweat. It’s soft, warm, good, safe. It’s enough to make her stay like that for a good hour or two, hovering between sleep and waking. A place that’s absolutely fascinating to her.

It’s a bit like she can feel more this way, see more without knowing if she’s seeing it or dreaming it. Strength and Command are with her, she can see them, just off to the side there, looking quite put out about her being neither here nor there. It makes her laugh, a sound that isn’t made and is.  How many mages could do this, she wonders. Is this even a thing? Lucid half dreams?

Her warmth moves and she makes an unhappy sound, which makes the warm still for her. Once more she’s burrowing into it, pressing close until there is no closer she can get to it. Comfort, safety, serenity fall over her again, that half woken state returning to her. Here, she can see, something, not quite static, not close to being solid. It’s like dust particles, and yet, that isn’t the correct word for it either. Dust isn’t fluid. This is fluid, it moves like a person breathing, like a piece of fabric in the wind. A gentle ebb and flow.

She wants to touch it, this strange thing that is neither real or dreamt. Her hand even moves, reaching up over the warmth toward it. It makes Strength quiet, but Command seemingly goes ballistic, demanding she not continue what she is doing. But it is so close, so strange, how can she not investigate?

Her fingers brush against the not there and yet their fabric, and feel it give. It gives so easily, she almost wants to keep pushing, but her warmth moves, there is a feeling on her skin, wet, cool. Jayla jerks into awareness to find herself wrapped around Fenris again. His lips are pressed to her collarbone, murmuring in a disgruntled manner against her skin. It makes her laugh.

Laugh and then look around. The bed, is soft, overly so, and about the only thing that doesn’t smell as if it’s been covered in dust and wet for years on end. It makes her grimace, the laughter dying in her throat before she shoves her nose into Fenris’ hair. It smells of sea salt and dust, but that’s better than mildew. It’s also what wakes up her warrior come bodyguard come friend.

“Mmph,” the first words are muffled against skin before he shifts his face away from her. “Let go.”

He’s the worst in the mornings. Worse than she ever was when she was back on Earth, desperate for coffee and food first thing. But honestly, let go? She’s not even the one holding on like a koala right now. If anything, it’s Fenris who needs to let go.

“I’m afraid it’s you who needs to let go, Fen.” Her voice is sleep rough still, but it seemingly penetrates the fog around the Warrior’s mind. Gemstone eyes blink open several times, the pupils dilating, focusing on the world around him.  He doesn’t thrust himself, nor push Jayla away. He does, however, carefully unwind himself from her, his grip leaving her.

As he goes, the tranquility leaves as well. An unfortunate side effect, she’d much rather dive against him and recapture the feeling. Instead, she rolls away from him, noting she’s still in her dancing outfit and looking around the room. It’s not decorated at all, dust sheets on what looks to be a table, bench and chair. The floor is dust covered, but clean, nothing that she can see or smell to make her worried about putting her feet on the floor. A gust of early morning chilled wind makes her shiver, and then immediately look up. There is… a hole? But, there is something blocking debris covering it. Clear, permeable to wind – he willingly let a mage enchant his roof??

“Where the hell are we, Fenris?”

“My mansion – after a fashion.”

Her eyes slide to him, head turning over her shoulder before she tips her head up. “And that?”

“Hawke, a parting gift, as it were. Along with the rest of the place being cleaned out.”

“Do I want to know?”

“Likely not. Come, we will get you cleaned, and dressed properly before going to the tavern here in Hightown.”

Her eyes blink slowly at the words that just came out of Fenris’ mouth. Hightown. Mansion. His. Dressed properly? Irritation flares through her, and she leans into his space deliberately. Her eyes flick to his from under her lashes and she bites her lip, dragging her teeth over it after a breath.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing now? Don’t you like it?”

What happens next leaves her speechless, a myriad of emotions and reactions fly over Fenris’ face. Irritation, desire, straight out anger, before indifference settles into the lines of his face. He even leans forward into her space, making her back up just a touch.

“It’s fine, if you are a slave or a whore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me. Don't hate me. Don't hate me. We're nearing that bottom of the barrel. I swear to the Maker that Haven is the bottom.


	38. Echoing Cries

“Papae!” Eldhru clings to the great wolf in her dream, tears tracking down her small heart shaped face. Neither Action nor Solas have to say a thing. The child knows, recognizes them. It’s a bit of a wonder, but he hasn’t the time to ponder that. A full day and night they’ve been gone, and he needs to find them.

“Da’len, I am here.” The man with the wolf spirt curls around the smallest of his children. She is filled with fear, so much the demons batter at his shields to get to her. It is all he can do to keep from snarling and howling to keep them away. Eldhru, she doesn’t need such a fright, such aggression around her right now.

“I want to go home! I want Mamae!” Her whimpers break his heart, his great head laying carefully against her smaller frame. She is so tiny, he has never noticed how truly small the toddler is. Now it is all he can see.

“We will come get you, and your siblings, El. I promise you, I swear it.” He nuzzles at the frightened child, doing his best to comfort her. Her sobs, her all-encompassing fear, it is truly too much for Solas. The guilt eats away at him. Had he just stayed in the cabin with them until Jayla returned, had he continued to be an active part of their lives, perhaps there would have been a greater chance they would not have been taken.

“I am scared, Papae.”

“I know, da’len. I know.” The shift is gradual, until beast is replaced by a man, curled around his child on the ground. It is so dark here in her dream, too dark for her to not be even more terrified than she already is. He moves them away, far away from this darkness. It’s a s simple as taking a breath. The darkness melts away, the battering of demons fading into nothingness.

This realm is purely his own. No demon would dare tread here. It is the perfect refuge for his magelings. Thing fingers card through flaxen locks, slowly calming his child. There are so many questions he must ask. Where is she, did she know what the person who took her looked like, was she hurt? Are all her siblings that had been taken with her, or have they been split up. Are they traveling? Are they away from the mountains? How many of the kidnappers are there?

So much to ask, and so little time to comfort her and get the information he needs. Her mental wellbeing takes priority, however, and he does not drown her in questions. Instead he buries his nose in her hair, clutching her close so her sobs, that wrack her body and make her breath stutter, slowly quiet.

Eldhru has ever been the child he is closets with. She is fearless, not at all scared of him, even when the others were a touch wary. Of them all, she is the most his. Having her away from him has hurt his heart immensely. He missed every one of the children, but his little light most of all. From the corn silk of her hair to the fact she still has that distinctive powdery baby smell to the high pitch of her voice.

“I will find you, ma’ashalan. I will find you.”

 

“Solas, you look like hell.” The Iron Bull isn’t easily frightened off. The humans might see the elven mage as a threat and cower, but the Iron Bull see’s it a little differently. Yes, Solas is a threat, but he’s also a loose cannon. Which means he is doubly dangerous. He needs to be watched, carefully.

“Thank you ever so much for pointing that out, the Iron Bull.” The words are grit out through the other man’s teeth. There are bags under his eyes, actual purple bags that stand out like vivid bruises. His lips are pulled thin, those ears are almost pinned against his head. Normally placid eyes and countenance are twisted in obvious anger.

“Is there something you needed of me? Come to debate the merits of your brainwashed culture against my ideals.”

“We can, if you want.” The giant of a man rolls his shoulders, as easy going as can be. “Or, we can get a drink, so you can unwind.”

“I’d prefer neither option.” There’s that cold, aloof anger. Each word enunciated clearly, bitten in to and bitten off. It’s attractive in its own way, but the Iron Bull knows without a doubt, that the suggestion of physical relief will come with a fireball attached to the refusal. So, he doesn’t give it another moment. It’s wasted consideration.

“Chess, then. You need to unwind somehow, or you won’t find your kids.” The kids he tried to leave behind. But that is left unsaid, hanging in the air between them. It’s heard by the other man too. Good. That flinch is almost missed, almost.

“I…appreciate the offer. It might do me good to focus on the tactical aspect of it.”  The way those shoulders hunch in. Hiding. Hiding what? Yes, the man has lost children out there, but there’s more. He can’t find it in his body language and that bothers Bull.

Only the most practiced liars can conceal this will. The anger is genuine, the frustration. But those hunched shoulders. To most it looks like defeat, resignation. His face is too closed off. Too – normal Solas.

“Well, let’s head to the tavern. I’ll have a runner get my bored and pieces.  Or we can go without, make it a real challenge.”

“As you will, Iron Bull.” Annoyed, not despondent. Interesting. Very interesting.

“My people? You need my people to look for those little’s of the Herald’s?” Sera is a bit agog. When she’d signed up with Miss glow, she’d not honestly thought to be utilized like this. Yeah, the Herald liked her a bit, but she was banging bits with Mr. Elfy himself. Or was.

“Yes, Sera it would be invaluable to us if you could help. If we can find the children before the Herald returns from Kirkwall –“

“You ain’t told her, have you?” The archer’s eyes narrow, her arms cross over her stained red tunic covered chest. That was just like the uppity ups. Keep the important one in the dark about their important shite. It ain’t going to go well. Even with the Friend’s help.

“We are sending a Raven this evening, giving the Herald time to complete her purpose in Kirkwall.” The Ambassador looks uncomfortable. Pretty Goldie squirms a little, her eyes don’t meet hers. They’re avoiding it. Her and Sneaky.

It tracks, they got one angry as hell mage already. Magicky bastards. At least the Herald’s got her head on. The friends have seen her, especially in Ferelden. Girl nearly killed herself to do good, a couple times over.

“I’ll get the network going. See what the Friends can find. Someone’s had to have seen the little magic blighters.”

“Leliana, we’ve stalled a near full two days. You must send that raven, we’ve never seen the Herald upset over information being withheld from her. We’ve never withheld information from her. This will end badly.”  He hadn’t been on the boat to tell Jayla about the abduction of the children, but now he knows it is imperative to tell the woman.

What if Solas is the one to tell her? Angry the town hasn’t mobilized enough? What if he tells her of the attacks he’s faced, that other elves have faced. This is poised to blow apart the Inquisition. Jayla is known to lean in favor of the elves.

“You have had quite a change of heart, Commander.” The cool reply grates on the Commander’s nerves. Yes, he’d had a change of heart. It’s hard not to, when lives hang in the balance. More than just seven children’s lives hand upon this decision.

“I have weighed the outcomes of this situation, as I am sure we all have. Is the Herald’s ire something we should chance? If she leaves, the people love her now, enough she could gather her own following. She could take a quarter of our forces, that is how enamored with her they are. The elves would all band behind her, especially because of those children.  Have you not thought of that? She’s embraced the title as much as she can, not being an Andrastian herself. She is now a Rivaini noble. This is a storm of misfortune if we let it lie.”  That is the least of bad scenarios he’s thought up.

“Don’t you worry about a mage being given such terrible news. She could make a deal, she could become an abomination just to save those children.”

“It is a chance we must take. Solas has yet to do such a thing. Jayla is – stronger than I have given her credit for. I let old prejudices rule me, and it has potentially cost us lives.”

“It could focus her.”

“It could kill her, as well as those children.”

“She could be seen as weak, as ignoring her duties for the sake of a a handful of children.”

“She could be seen as a holy mother, who will leave no child to be used, to be left in the cold or in the clutches of our enemies.”

“You’ve made your point, Cullen. Take the message, send for the Herald. Hope her purpose has been done or she’ll be leaving again.”

He sighs in relief. This time, this time, he won’t fail those children. Moving out of the Nightingale’s tent. The rookery isn’t far from there, but he is near running to get there quickly. This raven is the perhaps the most important he will pen to the Herald.

 

“Père! Où êtes-vous, j'ai peur. Mael is crying!”

“Papa! Papa they put us in irons. I can’t feel the fade, I don’t – Papa, find us.”

“Papae! _Papae_ , _mamae,_ where are Delphine and Tara and Mael? I'm so scare, Ellie is crying, ”Corrado has a broken arm. My leg hurts. Papae, I want to come home!"

“Where are you?”


	39. Heads will Roll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They should have sent the raven sooner.

“ _It’s fine, if you’re a slave or a whore.”_ He says it so – he’s completely fine saying that. Jayla feels her mouth drop open and she’s so shocked she doesn’t know if she’s mad or not. His eyes hold no sign of joking. There’s nothing in them to take the bite from his words. He’s devoid of anything he usually shows her.

That is what decides her on being angry. Her hand lashes out, and as if he were anticipating it, Fenris’ hand intercepts hers before it connects. He doesn’t so much as flinch, even when the little human mage all but launches herself at him. It’s nothing for him to get her pinned. It’s laughable and utterly mortifying how easily he manages it.

“Jayla!  Calm down.” He’s going for gold with ways to piss her off, and she bucks, flipping the warrior off the side of the bed. He hits hard, the breath leaving him in a pained whoosh.

“You calm down, asshole.” She’s so mad. Whore. He called her a whore! Him. Fenris. Her _friend_. The Herald is so angry she could spit.

“Woman!” He lurches up right, glaring at the small woman on his bed. She’d misunderstood. Or he had poorly communicated. He’s thinking a little of both have occurred, but now she’s started this, he’s not going to be the one to end it. She hasn’t sparred, or had any physical altercation since the old man left her.

It’s not an ideal way to expel her hurt, but it is the way Fenris is best equipped to deal with and most familiar with. He doesn’t have to wait long, she moves off the bed, and he takes his chance. Is it stupid, to swipe her feet from under her, urging her into releasing her anger physically? Yes. Is this likely a safer way for her to have her catharsis rather than letting it guide her magic later? Yes. He’ll take the bruises.

Whore. She’s stuck on that word. That Fenris would say that too her. That Solas would treat her that way. Solas who had supported her, kept her from breaking apart at the seams when she wanted nothing more than to break down each and every night in the hinterlands. Action hasn’t visited her since she screamed at him. Oh, he lurks, he watches, she can feel him, knows him as well as she knows anything in the fade. Fenris and the kids are her supporters now.

A support system that hinges on her support of them. Far more than the one established with Solas did. Solas. Damn him. Damn him! Her eyes burn, her heart squeezes uncomfortably as she rolls to get back up.

Solas and now Fenris. Fenris who feels comfortable making such a slight. Jayla has nothing against sex workers. It’s honest work. What she does have a problem with is the idea she can be used and tossed away, paid off, left behind in the dust. That’s what happens to sex workers. That’s all that can happen to prostitutes and escorts.

He had expected her to lash out. He knew she would, Jayla isn’t the type to let something like _that_ just lay on her skin. But the ferocity of her attack, the say she had launched herself at him, takes him off guard. They slam into the bookshelf, old books falling around them as she gets in a hit to his ribs. It barely hurts. Jayla’s got strength in her, but it takes more than a punch to get Fenris to actually acknowledge the hurt.

She doesn’t register that her bodyguard isn’t hitting her back. Not properly, open hands deflect what they will, or smack at her arms, her sides, enough to incite her again. His legs never raise above her knees, tripping her, warding her off, keeping her at bay without so much as breaking a sweat.

When Fenris uttered the words, he hadn’t quite thought that he’d be brawling with Jayla as a result. But, this is good, he stands by that assessment, even as she yells, eyes reddening in that way that announces tears. He takes her attacks, not at all as strong as they should be, and tosses in a few of his own to keep her momentum up. He’ll tire her out, metaphorically bleed her of her pain, so she might move on.

At this point, he doesn’t even imagine her moving on to another person, to him. He simply desires to see her as sure and vibrant as the first days on the ship with Isabella. That woman, she is who caught the warrior’s eye. Her softness is no less attractive, but it won’t help her. It doesn’t help anyone in this god forsaken era.

It’s too easy to take it all out on Fenris. It’s too easy for that anger push her to the point of tears and beyond it. He made it far, far too easy for her to break down. Her movements are sloppy now, there’s no conviction in them, though there hasn’t been much before. Things slow and point focus until it’s just her, her head leaning on Fenris’ forehead. Her breath is heavy, labored and her hands hang limp.

Neither of them move, her anger feels like it’s leaking out of her eyes, finally. She’s tired, wrung out, hands shaking a little, teeth throbbing in her mouth. It’s so silent in the mansion, just their breathing for sound.  She feels, distantly, Fenris’ hands on her, moving her, picking her up. The give of the bed comes next, the whisper of sheets settling. The bed moves again and arms wrap around her, and she slides back into the Fade.

One day, just one day for this. That’s all she can allow herself, all she will allow for. One day to be selfish, completely, entirely, selfish.

Fenris has never been a lay-a-bout. He’s never had the chance to be, really. But when Jayla breaks, the final break if he isn’t mistaken, he can be for the day. He is. Lying beside the small dark woman, holding her as he does, she seems so young.

Younger than Hawke had been when they met. Given he has no idea how old he even is, it’s hard to imagine her to be too young for him. Of the things Fenris regrets, it is not asking his sister anything before she was made to leave the city-state. He could have known things about himself. He could have found his past. Something beyond the pain of the lyrium scarring his body. Past his desperate need for vengeance.

Calloused fingers brush over the short-shorn hair on the side of her skull. Soft, a little prickly but soft. He hadn’t known her long enough with her hair coiled all over her head to prefer it. Not that he has a place to prefer anything. But this, it matches her wild edge, just like her tattoos mark her as different. Everything, truly, marks her as different from any woman in Thedas. Even Hawke. She is so different from Hawke.

“Maman,” Maël’s voice echoes in the dark spaces of her mind. She’d dropped right past the fade, floating in nothingness as her body recharges. Floating in tranquility, but Maël’s voice comes to her clearly. He sounds, upset, a quaver in the word for mother. It still shocks her so many of the children call her that. Eldhru, Varnehn, Carrie, Aeliana, the youngest of the children, they make sense. They are too small to have many memories of home or a mother figure.

“Maman!” The word is colored with… desperation? Her mind takes her to where she’s needed. She ‘wakes’ in a field within the Fade. HE calls again, and Jayla takes off running. She doesn’t know how Solas or Action do it, move within the Fade. No one taught her how, but, the Fade is a place. That’s been drilled into her head.

That means she can treat it like a place. A sob echoes and she stops, eyes wide, frantic. “Maël?! Maël, baby, where are you?” Her feet move her forward, cautious, careful. There are spirits around her, the Fade has taken on the look of a forest, thick foliage blocking out a good deal of light. Not all of it, but a good deal.

A murmur, a plea. Jayla crashes through the trees, the underbrush. Where was Maël? Where is he, why is he so afraid? What is he afraid of? Why isn’t anyone waking the poor kid up? She runs, searches, listens to the tears of her child, his cries for her. It makes her frantic, angry, frustrated. She can’t do anything here! Why. Why can’t she find him?

“MAËL! Maël, where are you?  Tell me, sweetheart, so I can find you.” The mother is desperate. It brings desperation to her, it brings others as well. Some retaining their spiritual nature, some coming to her already twisted. Those twisted whisper promises to her. Power, they always offer power. That she can always reject.

A small hand slips into hers. Makes her stop. A spirit holds her, form as solid as Strength and Command are. But she doesn’t feel like Strength, and Command in any form would be ordering her to do something. This one is quiet, studying.

“I will help you. You’re so bright, he’s so scared. I’ll help you fix it.” Soft words, innocently spoken, there are no bands that fasten around her heart. It is a free offer, and the Herald grabs at it with both hands.

“All right. Help me.”

In a moment, the spirit slides into her. It’s not terrifying, it’s not painful, it just happens. Warmth suffuses her, and she runs again. The spirit whispers how to find him, whispers and guides the mage through the Fade.

The pair of them skirt around dark saturated places, places that are frozen, places that are molten with rage. They skirt them, they run, they search. He keeps calling, she keeps moving. How long it goes on, she doesn’t know or care. Not so long as she can find him.

The forest gives away to a cliff, a cliff with a beach at the bottom, ocean stretching out before her. Jayla swivels her head back and forth, is this where she will find her little boy? _The beach_ , comes resounding through her head. So, she goes down, her feet dig into the sand, cold, so cold. It almost burns her, but she trots forward, not running, in case she misses that dark head of hair, or those huge brown eyes.

She stops when she hears him, clear as day, and looks around, terrified he might be in the water. There is someone watching out for them, someone, something, watching over them, because he isn’t there. No pale face and dark hair bobbing in the dark blue. Thank the gods, the spirits, whoever it is who keeps him safe.

“Maël!”

“Maman, help me!” To the right, she whips around, breathing hard as her heart beats a staccato rhythm. Where. Where is he?!

 _There_. An overhang, shadowed enough she doesn’t see it at first. But a flash, and she runs forward. There, there he is. But. Oh. Oh spirits.

“Maël – Maël who is that?” Her voice is soft, frozen in a mix of terror and rage. That clothing, she’s never seen it before. Not hard, as she’s hardly been anywhere here, but southern armor, Ferelden armor is different. This is cloth, mostly, grieves and vambraces pointed, heavily. Spikes that are ridiculously dangerous.

Vambraces that are terribly close to her son. Vambraces that hold a knife.

“Mama! Please, where are you? Where is papa? I’m scared!” The words propel her forward. Get to Maël, get him free of that – that villain. But, she doesn’t make it to him. Just shy of her fingers touching the person’s arm who holds him hostage, they disappear with Maël crying for her.

Jayla wakes up screaming.

 

The piercing sound draws Fenris from his doze. He’d been doing it all day on and off. Watching her, waiting for her to wake up, to be herself again. Now, now he’s seen her fear, and he doesn’t like it one bit. Her fine hairs are plastered to her forehead, her eyes are wild and wild, pupils pinpricks.

“What’s wrong?”

The question is repeated at least a half dozen times before those near black eyes settle on him. It’s shocking, how visceral the emotions in her eyes are. Fear, Rage, a certain degree of helplessness resides in those eyes. One of his hands reaches out, settling on her shoulder.

“Jayla, what’s wrong?”

“Someone has my son.”

 

Varric doesn’t know what tornado possessed his illustrious leader, but she looks like a harpy that was spat out of the clutches of a storm. Her hair is tossed on top of her head, her eyes are wide and wild, making her the picture of a barbarian heroine on a mission. Thing is, Varric has no idea why she’s at his room in the hanged man at quarter to first bell. It’s damned unslightly, and she’s got Fenris at her back.

“Slow down, Princess. What the hell is happening.”

“Someone took Maël.” She growls the words out, those dark eyes flashing like her lightning does. “I had to go find him in the Fade. He was screaming, Varric. Something is wrong. We are going to that damned market now, and leaving within two hours.”

“Maker’s ass, Jayla we can’t get out of here in two hours. We don’t have a boat, and it’ll take an hour to get to the Black Emporium as it is –“

“Fenris.”

“My lady.” The elven warrior snaps to in a way Varric’s never seen before. It’s not the remnants of the teenager who had been carved violently into a warrior slave. It’s not the remnants of the bitter young man who had run for his freedom either. This is wholly new, likely, in part, because of Jayla and her situation influencing him.

“Go get Isabella. Tell her I have twenty Royals if she gets us out of Kirkwall before third bell.”

“Yes, my lady.” And like the ghost he was nicknamed, Fenris leaves the room. Just leaves! It’s a damned shame Varric doesn’t have some paper. This scene would work beautifully in any number of serials laying half finished.

“Get dressed, Varric. We’re going to the Emporium. We are leaving Kirkwall, I am finding out what the _fuck_ happened to my son!”

“Andraste’s tits. Okay, Okay, I’m going.”

The walk is deathly silent, just the four of them, Rickson, him, Fenris, Jayla – slogging through the lesser known places in Darktown. If they had more time, Varric is sure Jayla would be ranting, beside herself at the state of the people here. Again, mostly elves, some refugees, some poor fuckers so poor they didn’t even own their souls live here. But, she doesn’t say a word. Jayla is utterly silent as they walk, her footsteps near silent as she slips in and out of the shadows.

He wonders if she realizes how thoroughly she’s slipped into the role she’s been creating for herself. It doesn’t take a genius to see that the Jayla people interact with publicly, the Jayla seen by those closest to her are starting to become different people. Different personas. This woman, she’s all business. Make the decisions, enact them, reap the consequences of it. She wields knives and will take your head if she must, not seeing the carnage until it’s all over. That is what the Herald is.

Jayla at her base, without all her trappings, is a mother, a daughter, a woman scorned, a woman broken and piecing herself back together. That is the woman who wields magic, who cries for their dead enemies. That is the girl who hesitates when it comes to the killing blow. Who leaks through the wall into the Herald when it is least opportune for her to do so.

But this. The dream, that is upsetting to anyone. Varric doesn’t know her pack of squirts well, she keeps them away from the Singing Maiden as often as humanly possible, and he understands why. But, he’s seen them now and again. Told them short stories, watched as those big eyes shine with delight. Maël, he’s a middle kid, not the smallest, not the oldest. He’s one of the most attached to Jayla, though. Him and Delphine, Eldhru, Tara,Varhnen. Those ones latched onto Jayla and won’t ever let go. You can just tell by the look they get when they can’t be held or hold her hands and another of the squirts gets to.

So Maël being taken? This is the most epic of shit storms waiting to hit the shore. He knows it’s going to take at least a day or two if the wind is against them to get to Highever, and from there, four days if they walk, two, two and a half if they ride and ride hard for Haven. He’s got a feeling Jayla is going to do whatever it takes to get back as fast as she can.

“Hey, hold up Princess, here it is.” He stops them just before they pass the door. It’s located in a particularly dank section of Darktown, but at least there aren’t any bodies here. He can’t remember ever seeing so many when he trolled down here with Ava. Fuck. The Merchants guild is going to get a few strongly worded, vaguely threatening letters. The coin he is contributing to the rebuilding should be helping to prevent this!

 

Jayla turns sharply, looking at the door that blends with whatever the hell the walls are made of. She doesn’t think it’s wood, but she’s never seen stone like this. The ballerina isn’t going to touch the walls either, because this place is disgusting. People shouldn’t live down here. _Rats_ shouldn’t live down here.

It’s Varric who opens the door, and Rickson is the first to go inside. He takes point, footfalls cautious, quiet and the rest of them pile in behind him. Fenris last to shut the door, long range fighters sandwiched between the close combatants. She can appreciate that. Kept them from getting jumped. Or would, as no one is currently jumping them.

“Ah! Visitors! How lovely.” A voice that speaks of age booms through the walk way. It’s dimly lit with veilfire, and Jay can’t help but wonder at it. What mage was hired for this, or is the Antiquarian a mage himself?

“Come in, hurry up. I haven’t got all night. Mind Chauncey, the little bear, he bites.” It’s almost as if the words queued the creature to come forth as they make it into the emporium proper. Dust hangs in the air here, thick on some of the tables. It’s a round room, the floors creak, a strange looking statue sits in the middle of the room.

“Thank you for the invitation, Antiquarian. I am sorry we didn’t come sooner. I’m sorry we also won’t be staying long.”

“No need for pleasantries!” That voice pauses awkwardly, as if out of breath, coughing and sucking in air after getting through the short sentence. “Find what you need, Herald from another World. My doors are open to you.”

That brings them all up short. Eric has a confused look on his face. As does Fenris. Varric looks as tense as Jayla feels. Damn it. How did he know? Where is that frigging asshole?! “Thank you.” The words are clipped, almost insincere as Jayla muscles her way past her Templar. She darts to the nearest thing, which happens to be – Spirits.

“Trust you to find the most blasphemous object in this place.” Rickson is laughing behind her, eyes only skating over the naked statue of Andraste. His cheeks are pink, and even though he is laughing, Jayla can read his discomfort.

“Blasphemous? She had kids, didn’t she? What’s blasphemous about nudity? What would be blasphemous would be saying she was quietly fucking Shartan or the Emperor that killed her. _That_ would be some prime blaspheming.” She can’t damn well help herself. He left the door wide open! And she’s been through this, she’s not got an ounce of religion in her. Or she just hasn’t found it yet. Either way. It stood.

“Andraste’s flaming sword, woman. Have a little respect!” It’s worth his scandalized tone to hear Fenris and Varric laugh. For a second she can forget the sight of her son’s face from that dream.

“Quiet the Herald, aren’t you? Oh, and that hand. It does glow quite beautifully.” That damned Xenon is speaking again. Jayla is so creeped out by this place. “If you ever fix that hole in the sky, I’d happily pay you a tidy sum for your hand.”

“ _WHAT?!_ ”

“Oh yes. I’ve a hand of someone else somewhere in this collection of mine. Got some powerful magic on it. And there’s also that blasted trunk. Had a few urchins try to open it once. They all died. Tragic waste of good help.”

Brown eyes blink and her head shakes. No. No, she is not going there. No way he has some booby-trapped bullshit in here. Nah. Ain’t nobody got time for this. Her feet take her to the nearest table. It’s stacked with papers. Warmth appears at her left elbow. Fenris.

“Schematics for armor, the one next to us is for weapon schematics. There are potion ingredients and recipes, and actual already made armor and weapons here.” He’s indicating each with a gauntleted hand on her shoulder, moving her while the other points the places out around the room.

“Helpful. Thanks.” She calls a weak smile for her bodyguard and flips through the schematics. Weapons, important. Armor, more important. Jayla isn’t stupid, she needs new armor. The stuff she’s been wearing was scavenged and hardly fits her correctly. Harritt shits a kitten every time he sees her ride past in it.

“Oh. This would be useful for –“Her teeth clack together as her jaw snaps shut. It would be a good staff for Solas. And the next would suit Vivienne quite well. They are set to the side without another word. A great sword is plucked, something that looks like it might work to improve Bianca, knives for herself. Wicked looking ones. With luck, she won’t have to use them much.

She hands the vellums over to Fenris, and heads for the armor table. She’d go back to the schematics in a moment. Premade is important, especially right now. If Maël had even the smallest clue as to where he is, she will run for him, straight to him. It doesn’t matter the danger between her and him, she’ll cut through it. That means she needs proper gear.

“Are you not a mage, my lady?”

“Damn it, Fenris. Jayla. My name is Jayla. Jay if it’s too damn hard to get the la in there.” She’s irritated with his formality. Irritated she’s broken down in front of him more often than not and now her child is in danger and he treats her with kid gloves. “And yes, I am a mage. I also like to stab people with pointy things. Didn’t anyone tell you? My magic is _wrong_.”

 

The bitterness in those four words hangs heavy in the store. Varric shakes his head, silent as he takes a deep breath. He knew she hadn’t let that shit go. She’s so well adjusted. Fuck. No, she isn’t. She’s just moving. Keep moving and your problems can’t quite catch up. He knows that philosophy pretty damn well. Too damn well.

And Broody? Broody looks like he’s stuck between shock, anger, and confusion. Varric doesn’t even know if he’s going to touch this with a twenty-league long stick. It’s smarter to just let them hash it out. Broody isn’t known for his tolerance of mages. And when a mage declares their magic wrong. Well, he’s just surprised Broody isn’t already making remarks.

“What do you mean by that?” Eric looks tense, watching the warrior question the Herald who pulls together armor much sturdier than her scavenged set. It would fit her as well, that would go miles in her protection.

“I mean, the circle mages don’t like my magic.” Her words are terse and two of the four people flinch. Xenon is blessedly silent, listening keenly.

“Why would they not like your magic? Are you a blood mage?!”

“No! Jesus fuck. I just. I didn’t learn the same way most mages do.”

“So you’re an apostate. A hedge mage? Most of Rivain is filled with hedge mages.”

“Something like that.” She’s hedging, the armor bundled in her hands before she moves back to the schematics, quickly flipping through the potions.

“Jayla, tell me.”

“Fucking hell. Leave it, Fenris. This isn’t the time.” Her head whips toward him, locs fanning around her and Varric knows it’s time to start counting the coins. This isn’t going to be pretty and he is not getting dragged into it.

“When is the right time then? You’ve been sulking over the bald elf for a week. You’ve been making yourself physically ill with your Revika trying to call visions of the future for all the moments you aren’t crying yourself unconscious. When should I ask you, Jayla? Oh, perhaps when you are dressed like you should be in chains and drunk enough to be taken advantage of?!”

Shit. “Hey, tall, dark, and holy.” Varric calls to Rickson lowly, tearing the twenty something year old kid’s attention away from the fight that’s rather rapidly brewing. “Get the stuff from Jayla, we’re getting out of here. We’ll see if Rivaini is here yet.”

It takes a little dancing. But the vellum and armor are extracted. The hundreds upon hundreds of gold coins are given over, straight from the coffers of the Inquisition, and the self-styled brother and father team leave the …whatever the hell they are to it.

 

“Don’t be a dick about this. I thought you were my friend!” Her hands make fists and Fenris just crosses his arms over his chest. His marks pulse, but don’t flare and the room smells like a sharp cross between ozone and lyrium in the bottle.

“I am. But I won’t be left in the dark. Why is your magic wrong. Why are you still hung up on that waste of elf flesh who _left_ you. Just tell me.”

“I can’t!”

“Yes, you can. You simply don’t want to or don’t trust me.” His green eyes are becoming dark with anger and that pulsing happens with less time between the pulses. Jayla feels a little bit like she is high. Or what must pass for being high.

“Fenris, please just leave it. You aren’t going to understand!”

“I don’t understand why you won’t just **tell** me!”

“Fine. Fucking. FINE. I love him. I love that stupid, selfish, jerk of a mage with a ferocity I wasn’t aware existed. And I knew it would end like this. Flash fire, that’s what he and I are. We’ve fought to the point I got injured. But I love him.” Maybe now Fenris will leave it be. She’s not stupid, not blind. Of all the people to fall for, Fenris had to go and become enamored with her.

“You’re a fool if you think love is enough –“

“ _Don’t_.” She practically screams the word in his face. “Don’t you say another damn word, Fenris. You weren’t there at the start, you don’t know!”

“Do I need to know firsthand? He used you. Took what he wanted and left you to pick up the pieces.” The sneer on her friend’s face makes her flinch. She’s got no wall to hide behind with Fenris, he’s seen too damn much of her. “I bet you resisted. I bet it started innocently. That he let you take comfort in him. That he held you when you were upset, spoke to you when you were uncertain. He helped you. He was there, close to you.”

“Stop. Fenris. Just stop!”

“Then tell me why your magic is deemed wrong. Tell me what you’re hiding!”

“What does it matter?! You know what you need to know!”

He growls lowly at her, crowds her back into the table impulsively, hands on either side of her. One of her hands plants itself on his chest to keep him from coming nearer. As if she could. She may be a rogue, a mage, but he could crush hearts when he chooses to.

“I want to know the woman I sleep beside. I need to know the woman I follow. I don’t follow liars. I won’t be manipulated by anyone, least of all you. I don’t care how many times Solas had you, how many times he said he loved you, he used you. Whatever he gained, he got it and left you. I know that much. But you’re hiding something. You’re hiding more than just why your magic is considered strange.

I hadn’t thought much of it, you know, when we met up with the tribal leader. I assumed we were returning to _your_ tribe. I assumed Revika was your actual mother. She could very well be, but the way you two spoke to one another. Your body language. The way the whole visit played out. That wasn’t your tribe. You said you were honored to have them host you.”

Shit. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, SHIT. Jayla shoves at Fenris, shoves him solidly. She feels a twist of panic when he barely budges. No. No, she isn’t doing this right now. Not with Maël out there scared.

“Fenris –“

“Now, Jayla. Please.” He aims that broken look at her and she wants to scream. Why?! Why wasn’t she allowed secrets. Why isn’t she allowed to keep at least a part of herself to herself?!

“Fine! I’m not from Revika’s tribe. I’m not Rivaini. Not properly anyway. I come from a culture shockingly similar, but it doesn’t have working magic. I’m not from here, Fenris. Not anywhere on this world. You heard him when we came in, right? Herald from another world. Well that’s fucking me. I’m not Thedosian!”

Then what is she? He stares at her, thinks over the last week. She spoke the language, she knew the dance. A little off, but she knew it without a doubt. She fits in here so easily. And she had said –

“You were not a slave.”

“No.”

“Your mother?”

“No.”

“Your grandmother.”

“Her mother was. Grandma was born free. Just barely. It’s hard to explain. There should be two generations or more between my great grandmother and my grandmother. Later. I will explain all of this shit later. Fenris my son is missing. Please, please just let this drop!”

He growls again, looking every inch the wolf he is named for. It’s the first time Jayla has felt fear in his presence. “Fine, for now, I will let it lie. But when you find your son, I will come to you, I will ask answers. I need to know I can trust you.”

He moves away from her then, heading for the door. He needs to put distance between them. It will likely hurt her. But he has to. Another world. Is it truly possible? How much has he assumed about that woman and all of it is likely wrong?

“Fenris, what have I done to make you distrust me. Think about that.”


	40. Let none dare to cross us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one in which we edge closer to pain and suffering and the revival of hope. 
> 
> Sorry for being gone ya'll. Summer is the worst time for me to write, but I am determined to get this part of the story finished before fall. It's the shittiest part and I keep looking at the outline and crumbling. But I digress - a bit of filler, a bit of plot, a bit of negative character development.
> 
> Remember, kids, even negative growth is growth.

In the half an hour Varric and the other three had been in the Emporium, things had gotten moving elsewhere. It had been quite a commotion they made going down into Darktown after all. Isabella and Zevran aren’t surprised to see pockets of carta forming up along the route back into the main part of Lowtown. Jayla had made quite the racket coming here when she did, the way she did.

The pair slide into the shadows and make careful, precise strikes. Hardly any of their targets had time to yell out. Those that did, and attracted others, weren’t afforded a clean and quick death. But, the way is cleared, and in quite the timely fashion, the rogue pair show up just as Jayla barrels out the door to the Emporium, Fenris hot on her heels. It’s rather clear, from the looks on Varric and Eric’s faces, things have become tense between the herald and her guard.

What makes Zevran twitch is when Fenris’ hand wraps around the younger woman’s arm, trying to get her to stop, to look at him. There is an air of anger between them, the flavor of guilt and shame. Who owns what isn’t as clear as one might hope.

“Who are you?” Dark eyes, bright, angry eyes, settle on him, and he can’t help the shiver that lances through him. Not unlike his dearly departed. So, similar it is quite upsetting, actually.

“Ah, your worship.” Playacting has always saved him, and will continue to do so for the rest of his life. Shutting down the pain of seeing his Warden in the Herald, putting on the flirtatious whoremonger mask puts a wall between him and the rest of the wall. “Lady Nightingale did not do you justice. You are radiant, more beautiful than any star in the sky.”

Such flamboyant compliments do not win the assassin any friends among the men gathered. Eyes of varying tones settle on him, and you can practically taste the disapproval hanging in the air around them. The Herald herself looks the least impressed of them all, her eyes becoming closed off, body language stiffening. Once burned, twice shy it would seem.

“For Andraste’s sake. Are all elves stupidly pretty or just the ones I seem to meet?” Her words are wry, and she’s clearly tired. Yet, the Herald lives up to the pomp, the awe created around her. He watches the way her weight shifts, right hip jutting out as her arms cross.

“You know. You didn’t answer the question. Who are you.”

“Forgive me, your Worship. I am but a humble assassin contracted by your Nightingale to keep you safe on your journeys.”

Her cheeks heat up, the coloration difference slight, but when you are trained as Zevran is, it’s hard to miss. But this is not a pleased color, no, no, it is the deep red of anger. Leliana has overstepped it would seem.

“Fantastic. Another guard I don’t need. Name. _Now_.” A faintly floral scent tinges the rising smell of lightning. Ah, she is an elemental mage, then. How convenient no one thought to mention such.

“Zevran Arainai, your –“

“If you call me your worship one more time I will skin you.” Her voice is harsh, enough so that Zevran raises his hand in an “I come in peace” manner. She is on edge, he can understand why. Losing the people closest to you tends to have that sort of effect.

“Forgive me, my lady. Though I must say, you are exquisite in your anger.”

 

Fenris almost goes to make a fist, thankfully remembering Jayla’s arm in his grasp before the action even begins. He lets his hand drop, but sticks close to her side. He remembers Arainai, Ava had convinced Anders to have a little ‘party’ with the Assassin the day they ended up helping him. From Isabella’s stories, the man is of the same ilk as those in the Blooming Rose.

It makes the warrior growl, to hear him flirt with the Herald in such a manner. She is not for him. She’s not even for Fenris. He knows that, as much as he likes to deny it. Jayla is so deeply in love with Solas, that it hurts. Hurts to see her miss him, while she slowly becomes something, some _one_ unreachable.

He’s scared, that the friend he so quickly made will disappear. His own fears are still a driving force in his life. No matter how he’d like to say they aren’t, Fenris still doesn’t trust magic like the others he’s become something of family with. For Jayla to say her magic is wrong, with the bitterness of a woman far older than she is, scares him.

His hand drops from her arm, a silent sigh leaving him as Arianai makes his compliments. That man is a menace. What god disliked them so to place Arianai as one of the Herald’s guards? Is a templar and warrior lined with lyrium no longer sufficient?

 

Jayla pinches her nose and sighs heavily. “I don’t care why you’re here, Zevran. But we are leaving now. I won’t stand here while Maël is out there.”

“Can you be sure it was not a nightmare created by a demon?” Honey eyes watch her carefully, and his cadence is cautious. It does nothing to cool the ire of the woman in front of them.

He watches as her skin lights up, arcs of lightning running up and down her body, through her hair. It makes most of them flinch away, himself included. Surprisingly, Fenris does not move away from her.  The assassin watches as the other elf dares to lace his fingers with hers, a clearly comforting gesture yet his face scrunches in pain when little bolts hit at his armor.

“Jayla.”

She growls low in her throat, teeth bared and grit. It should be terrifying. Instead, all Zevran sees is a woman on edge. She could become a loose cannon if her fears are not assuaged. If her anger is not tempered. It could cost them all their lives.

 

“Jayla, please, we must move, and you must calm yourself. Becoming angrier will not help the little one.”

Varric wonders how the elf does it. Fenris had just royally insulted and pissed Jayla off. But here he is, enduring her magical discharge, and trying to calm her down. Trying, and marginally succeeding. The light on her skin dims little by little, and her dark eyes close as she takes deep, steadying breaths.

“Let’s go. Isabella, Zevran, lead us, Rickson, Varric, take up the rear, Fen – with me. We need to send runners for our things –“

“Already done, sweet thing. You really didn’t expect Varric to not have taken care of that now, could you?”

Some little light returns to Jayla’s face at that information, a little weight lifted off her shoulders. There are still things to do, that tailor would need to ship her clothing rather than just deliver it. What a bother for the tailor. Her mouth opens and Varric lifts his hand. He can read her face, knows what’s going to come next.

“Already taken care of, Princess. All we need to do is get on the boat and go.” She softens again, and he can see the circles under her eyes. Whatever sleep she’d stolen, it wasn’t restful in the slightest. At least it is a full day and night’s journey to Highever, provided no one attempts to take Isabella on while they’re in open water. Stranger things have surely happened.

“Thank you, Varric.” Her voice is soft, and there is his princess again. The hard edges of Herald are smoothed away and the shining sweetheart is all that’s left. Her hand is clutching at Fenris’ and apparently all is forgiven. He’s going to be questioning them about that development. Just like he noticed Jayla hasn’t been back to the hanged man since her drunken dance with Isabella. He is not going to let another person hurt her like Solas did. Especially not someone he knows has a poor track record with mages!

 

The walk through Darktown leaves Jayla’s stomach rolling. People _live_ here, in this squalor and filth. What’s worse, the city allows it, and does nothing to relocate them. It’s as bad as the homeless situation in her own country. Perhaps worse. Which is a terrifying thought. Jayla knows she never gave enough money when donations were asked for.

She was selfish, as selfish as any other person. It makes her heart ache now, to see and know that the people she walked passed back home are now the people she cannot bear to even look at now. Can they help everyone? Do they have to prioritize?

She needs to talk to Josephine. The Alienages, the homeless, the orphans, that’s where the bulk of the charity needs to be. And they had better be giving a goodly amount. She won’t accept being part of an organization that worked for profit in a time of chaos. She can’t. It’s not right.

“Jayla.” Fenris’ quiet utterance of her name makes her ears perk, and her dark eyes slide toward him. It’s a silent okay for him to continue.

“I am sorry for my – for behaving the way I did.” He is sincere, the light spatter of color on bronze cheeks and the way he cannot quite make eye contact with her key her in. He’s uncomfortable.

“You need to explain why.”

“I will if you allow me to.”

“I don’t have to _allow_ you to do anything, Fenris. If you want to – I’ll listen.”  She keeps her voice low, though has a feeling the other three rogues are hanging on every word they exchange. It is the nature of those suited to the shadows it would seem. Jayla’s even noticed she’s been doing it, tuning into conversations that don’t include her more and more often. Not that she’ll admit to it. She’d have to be in irons first.

“After we find your Maël, I’ll explain myself.”

“All right.”

 

Solas hasn’t slept in what feels like years. Not a true sleep, he’s been scouring dreams for his children and hearing only echoing cries. He has caught glimpses of them, held at dagger point, curled in corners with their siblings. It is tearing apart his heart.

The world has not lessened in its cruelty, but this is the first he has truly experienced without his full power at his disposal. He cannot rip through the Fade and rip into minds to find his children. He wants to, oh he craves to go to the lengths he could scant years ago, but he can’t. The veil has crippled him, Uthenera as well.

It shows, he has the dark shadow of hair on the dome of his head. His eyes are bruised, his face is drawn, eyes forbidding. He stalks through Haven a man possessed, checking wards and replacing them, noting who has been where within the town. The rest of the children have been sequestered within the Chantry, under the watchful eye of the Nightingale and Ambassador.

Cullen and Cassandra have been interrogating everyone who has ever whispered a negative word toward Elves. Their efforts are coming from the right place, but he doubts anyone will give them useful information. The children disappeared with nary a trace. Whoever had taken them is skilled, more so than anyone could have anticipated.

They had wanted those children and gone to great lengths to retrieve them. His children, the Heralds children. His hands clench and his teeth grind together. Jayla will murder him for this. She trusted him to keep them safe. They might not have spoken in a week, but he knew that much. She considered the children his, as much as hers.

He had failed twice over.

“Lady Nightingale!” A breathless agent darts past him – elven, one of his. Her eyes meet his as she heads for the tent, a silent acknowledgment. None of them knew he was their ultimate superior. Most assumed he was a high-ranking operative. A useful guise, especially right now.

It takes quite a bit of effort for Solas to shed is anger and focus his magic on making him unnoticeable. It’s a simple spell – should be a simple spell – but takes a great amount of focus. Focus he isn’t quite in possession of. But he will make it work, he won’t wait for the agent to come back to him, that could take hours. Hours he does not have the luxury of waiting.

“Ritts, what have you found?” The redheaded spymaster barely looks up from her lists and piles of paperwork. It is all strangely neat while appearing to be chaotic. He imagines the most sensitive information will be in the outer piles, nothing of consequence front and center. A good system to throw off those looking for easy information.

“The Herald, my lady, she’s already left Kirkwall! Your raven never reached her, Fisher watched her leave two nights ago, and sent word as fast as she could. The Herald is on a warpath, she knows the mageling children are gone.”

The already pale Orlesian woman loses what little color she has in her face. This – is not going to go well for her. Cassandra will no doubt back Cullen, and Cullen will tell the truth. That initially he had been against informing her, and changed his mind when they did not immediately find the children. The blame for the Herald not knowing of her children’s kidnapping will land squarely upon her shoulders.

“And is there any word from the agents out within the field? Anything at all?” She would turn this around, find some way to keep that woman’s ire from burning her.

“No, my lady. But the gates to Redcliffe have been closed, our agents within haven’t been able to get the word out. It’s very strange, my lady. There are no ravens from Redoubt Fortress either. Both groups are entirely too silent.”

Solas stiffens. Both Redcliffe and Redoubt going silent is a very bad sign. The children had said they were separated had they not? He cannot imagine any force of Templar and Mage to work together for any reason. Especially two so disparate as the main hosts of the armies engaged in this war for freedom. He listens a while more, to see if there is anything else to be learned from the conversation.

When he finds there is not, Solas makes his retreat as silent and unnoticeable as he came. The sun is dimming, he can feel the approach of the moons. It’s time he and Jayla spoke.

 

“What are you doing here?” She is dirty. Dirtier than Solas has ever seen her, dust in her hair, clinging to her clothes, sweat drying on her brow. He finds her wrapped up in the young wolf, and it makes him angry.

“I came because of the children.”

“Two days too late for that. Did anyone even think to tell me when they disappeared?! How long is it now that they’ve been gone?” The bite to her words chills the dream realm, heat licking at the outskirts of the dream. Her pain is impressive. Rage and despair swirl around her, and yet do not come close, Solas is not protecting this dream.

“Four days, five by the morning.” His words are defeated, quiet, full of repressed anger and hopelessness. He can do nothing to find them. He’s tried. “I have scoured the fade, I hear them, I have caught glimpses, but they are too scared to find where they are.”

“Maël came to me two days ago, terrified. Solas someone had a dagger to his neck.” Her pain hits him in the chest. How he misses her. The desperate look in her eyes fear tinging the flavor of her words in the swirl of everything else going on. Jayla is magnificent and terrifying.

“We will find them. I am doing all I can to find even a hint of who took them. The Commander and Cassandra are going through the army, the Ambassador has been reaching out discreetly to the noble families, Sera and her Red Jennies are looking, the Iron Bull and his chargers – no stone will be left unturned.”

She doesn’t look satisfied, and he can’t blame her. It all feels too as if they are doing too little. His hands rub against his head, the prickle of stubble present even here. He’s been lax in his personal upkeep. Not that it much matters. His feet pace around the clearing. He studiously does not look at the spirit who has taken Fenris’ form and still sleeps.

There are so many things to say.

“Solas.” Her voice makes him stop, eyes shifting to her. She looks – dangerous, on the precipice of a change he does not want her to take. Her eyes are stormy, the smell of electrified air hangs in the space.

“If they die, I will tear this world in two.”

His mouth goes dry, and his words flow without his asking them to. “I would help you do it.”

Waking happens abruptly, as it has for the last few days for the Herald. Her eyes open and her mind begins to work. She’d had a long and surprisingly civil meeting with Solas in the Fade. He’d given her everything he knew, everything that he knew the Council knew. He’d been quite the busy bee. It helps Jayla to remember this is not his fault.

How desperately she wants to blame someone – anyone within Haven for the disappearance of her children. She knows the stories though, has heard them in the Crossroads, when they had stayed with small packs of refugees on their way to Redcliffe Village. Slavers favor elven captives, especially children easily broken and shaped. It makes her blood boil. Someone dared to take her children. She isn’t sure she cares who has taken them anymore, so long as she finds them alive.

Maker save this world if they aren’t. She would use every bit of magic she had at her disposal to make the world pay if they aren’t. That dark part of her, the one that whispers vengeance is growing the longer she cannot find Maël, or Delphine, or Eldhru. They have all disappeared from the Fade. She hears the cries of the other magelings, but those three have gone silent.

It terrifies her. The rage she feels, the utter certainty that she _will_ ruin the world if her children die. That she spoke to Solas and saw the way this has worn on him – that she is both vindicated and saddened by it. He looks like a ghost. What color he’d been slowly achieving through their travels has become pallid, the dark stain of the stubble of his hair just throwing it into sharp relief. His eyes are haunted, pained. Her heart aches for him even as she feels a margin of happiness he knows pain.

Part of her is horrified, how can she be happy Solas is deteriorating before her very eyes? He hurt her, yes, but to wish ill on him? Never. Never.

Her party has been mostly quiet, they had driven a hard pace, the crew working shifts all day and all night to keep them on course and finding the wind that would take them faster. The horses had been put through their paces. Four or five hours of sleep and they were up again, riding hard to the south to Haven.  One more day and they would see the gates. One more day and she would have the hides of those that had allowed this to happen.

Things need to change, and they are not changing fast enough.


	41. She is no Crowned Queen... Yet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annnd I am back! Here we go kids, we are heading toward the road for Redcliff.

They meet the Bull’s Chargers on the road to Haven’s gates. The greeting is quite somber, and Jayla doesn’t much think about it. She hasn’t interacted with the group enough to be able to call them friends. A jovial greeting would be out of place, more so in the current situation. Still, it is nice to have more people around her, people she knows.

  
Not that – she scrubs her hands over her face, legs tightening gently, ever so gently, on the mount under her. She’s a terrible rider, but at least she isn’t getting saddle sore any longer. The young earthling is used to the constant ache and bruising this life has brought to her. The ground is hard, the saddle is hard, the only soft thing around for miles is her bedroll and that doesn’t do much to disguise the ground she lays on at night. 

“Boss,” one of the chargers addresses her carefully, and her face comes up out of her hands.

  
“For what it’s worth – we’re doing our best, all of us, to find your little ones.” The woman is an elf, the lines of her face proudly adorned with a tattoo. Jayla isn’t expecting anyone to applaud her for taking the elven children, least of all elves, looks of awe are heavily interspersed with anger in Haven. She knows her life choices are heavily judged.

  
“Thank you.” Her smile might be wan, but it is as warm as she can make it. “I appreciate the lengths you’re going to.”

  
Another in the party scoffs derisively, and it makes the black woman’s head swivel once more. “Only reason anyone cares about them is because they’re yours, shem.”

  
“Skinner!” The fair elf starts and Jayla holds up her hand.

  
“It’s all right. Skinner, is it? I know that most elven children would simply be written off as lost at this point, and that my station is the only reason we’re looking for them. What I also know, is that every child that goes missing should have this size party or more looking for them. Every child lost should be given equal opportunity to be found, and found alive. Children are our only future, and if we neglect them, because of their ears, the way they speak, how quickly or slowly they might learn, we doom ourselves to becoming little more than dust on the wind.”

  
She’s been thinking so hard about this. Solas had told her everything going on in the town. Everything. It makes her teeth grind just recalling his words.

  
‘The assaults on elves and any claiming Elven heritage are growing. The frequency of rape is – abominable. The Commander cannot keep enough guards around to prevent it all, and he isn’t confident some of his own aren’t the ones to commit the acts. Leliana is pulling too many strings in this situation, and is dropping threads from what I can tell. The Ambassador is doing her best to hold us all together, but something must give. The tensions in the town continue to grow.’

  
“We cannot continue at one another’s throats. It weakens us, it shames us – all of us.” Controversial words, but Jayla sees few worse ways to word this. To truly change, you have to let go and let change happen. You cannot cling to what was, to the hatred, the fear, and hope to become better even through effort. Because the fear will always linger, the hatred will always bubble up like oil from the earth.

  
“To become stronger, we have to purge the bad and strive forward with whatever good we can come up with. Haven has to be better if we hope to change anything –“

  
“Lots of pretty words, shem. But I don’t see your bald beau with you. I don’t see you taking human men to pieces for picking on the elven women, and some of the men too. I don’t see –“

  
“Solas is not a topic for discussion. As for the rest - you will.” The dark edge in Jayla’s voice makes people look at her. More than just the few around her that were watching the argument on tenterhooks. “Rape is possibly the most despicable crime to commit other than murder. And it will be treated the same when they are brought to court.” And there would be a court, had to be, or nothing would really change. Law is the gatekeeper to peace.

  
Jayla desperately wishes she was something other than what she is. Not because she feels she would be safe from this, but because she needs to be more for these people. She needs to be able to introduce a proper court system, she needs to be able to explain and understand plumbing, the ways to explain basic medical preventative measures. There is so much needed in Thedas and Jayla is woefully under educated to give it to them.

  
Frustration claws at her as they ride, but at least the conversation has stopped. No one knows what else to say to her, how to best continue the argument or even point out that Jayla is no crowned ruler, then she cannot possibly hope to attain all the changes she wants.

  
“Hey, Princess, we’re almost home. What do we tell your other littles?” Varric brings up the other children as they pass through the gates. Half a mile more, and she would be free of the saddle. Free of the saddle and placed in the vat of boiling oil.

  
“I don’t know.” The world falls like lead off her tongue and Jayla hates herself for it. Ben will not be pleased, nor Mallory or Niven or any of the remaining children. She’s not sure they’ll understand what is taking so long or what is even truly going on. Her head aches. “I’ll start with the truth, and hopefully that will make sense to them.”

  
Bone weariness takes over the Herald. They can all see it. Her eyes sport dark circles, her hair is lopsided on her head. She’s short, and fiercer than normal. Or as normal as the Chargers know her to be. None of them have been around her much. Krem has seen her, with his being so close to the boss’ tent and all. But the rest have hardly glimpsed her.   
They plod into the gates of Haven, and the weariness just seems to get worse for the young woman with a cursed hand. So much so, her bodyguards station their horses beside hers to keep pace. Sandwiched between them is how they get her to the stables, and then up to the Singing Maiden for something to eat and drink. She’s been pushing herself too hard, that much is obvious.

  
Word runs through the town that the Herald of Andraste has returned. No one is sure whether or not this is a good thing, considering what’s happened. As discreet as the council is, everyone had heard Irina’s scream, and knew what had happened when she was found. It didn’t take a genius to see that the children are no longer traipsing through the town either.

  
The town knows, and is largely silent as the Herald makes her way through. In her haze, her feet take her toward their table, hers and Varric’s and Solas’. When it’s in front of her, empty, she hesitates. Does she cede this ground to the elven mage? No, no she won’t cede anymore. She can’t keep giving.

  
“Princess, you look like hell. I’m grabbing you some food, real food, and a big glass of wine. You need it.” Varric’s voice jars her from her trance like state. She’s so tired, so worried, so angry. All of it is swirling together and making her almost numb. Her brain refuses to function to do more than nod, and there is no protest in her when Fenris seats himself beside her. They are only stalling the storm landing.

  
She perks up a touch at the ram stew laid before her with a meat filled sandwich and some amalgamation of greens. She continues to gain bits of herself back as she eats, sipping at the red wine her author had gotten her. It takes a while but finally Jay sighs and settles clear eyes on him.

  
“Thanks, Varric.” The words are heavy with several emotions. Thanking him for putting up with her this trip, the food, the chatter he’d provided while awake to keep her focused on the living world.

  
“Of course, Jayla.” The use of her name lets her know he heard her. It has her sagging in relief, leaning carefully against Fenris’ uncomfortable armor.

  
Anger still sits in her bones, a constant fire that needs no feeding, no encouragement. Fear, regret, they swirl around her like a cloud. No one has approached her since her return to Haven. Undoubtedly everyone knows she is back. So where are they? Are they so afraid of her they would rather turn tail?

  
“Jayla,” Fenris’ rough voice shakes her from her thoughts. And she tilts her head in acknowledgement of his speaking to her. “You don’t have to do anything further today. You need rest, I don’t think you’ve slept a full night in a week.”

  
Words meant to reassure her, drive her to sit up. No. Her children are out there, afraid, trapped. People here are responsible. Jayla needs to know who is most at fault and why the lapses that happened were allowed to stand.

  
“No. Varric, call a war council, I want everyone there. Half a mark.”

  
“You got it, Princess.”

 

She is leaning heavily against the heavy solid wooden table when the doors open. Fenris is at her side, his back to them, hips leaning against the table his arms crossed. Zevran is there as well. The damned man won’t leave her alone. He stalks from the shadows; fully aware she knows he is there. It’s almost as if it is a taunt.

  
Unsurprisingly, Josephine, Cassandra and Cullen are the first to arrive. Followed by Solas, Bull and Vivienne. Leliana, Sera, Rickson and Blackwall are moments behind them. Solas looks like shit. Worse than he did in the Fade. His eyes a dark, mouth tight with a lack of sleep, circles more vibrant than her own, true bruises. His head sports a dark shadow, she truly hadn’t thought he still grew hair. Not that he is old – but, that is neither here nor there.

  
“Explain to me, how this was allowed to happen. We are a peace organization out to find the fuckers who killed your holy woman, and restore the sky. But somehow, we can’t keep six children from being kidnapped within our own fucking town!” Heat radiates off the Herald and sparks dance along her skin.

  
Had this been some weeks before, Cullen would be reaching for his sword in a panic. Now, he quietly panics and allows her ire to wash over him. It was his fault, partially anyway. He should have had more guards on the small group of children. There are so many should haves in his life right now. He needs to take a hard look at himself, at his choices and convictions. Today, today is a part of that.

  
“I did not have adequate guard rotations drawn up or assigned when the children returned to Haven. I was – unaware of the personal issues between yourself and our Fade Expert –“

  
“The lack of protection for our children has absolutely nothing to do with the split between myself and Solas. Try again.” Her eyes are fire and ice all at once. He flinches, rubs a hand against the back of his neck, grinding his teeth to find the right way to just say this.

  
“I did not adequately post guard rotations for your children. It was a – “ he pauses, juvenile on the tip of his tongue. His eyes settle on Jayla and he knows, knows she won’t accept that. She pushes people, without realizing it. She pushes him – outside every comfort zone he’s established.

  
“It was a mistake that rests completely on my shoulders. I was still angry with you for our last altercation, you children paid the price. I … will never ask forgiveness for my error in judgement.”

  
Usually, the air would be sucked out of the room after a statement like that. Jayla would be ready to combust, and the scathing words sit on the tip of her tongue. Her children punished for something that had nothing to do with them. How is this their fate? Gain parents to lose the father. Gain safety to be thrust into uncertainty. Her hands clench and her jaw ticks in annoyance.

  
“Noted, Commander. Ambassador. Spymaster – have either of you anything to add? Perhaps an explanation as to why I was not informed of my children having been kidnapped?”

  
Now the air is sucked from the room. Cassandra had assumed one of the women had informed the herald of the issue. It was only logical, no mother, biological or otherwise, wanted to find out her children were gone, injured, or dead through rumor. She imagines the pain her own mother had gone through upon news of Anthony’s demise.

  
“It was the hope we would find the children before you returned, before it became a true issue.” Josephine speaks carefully, lacking her usual writing desk and quill. She seems less without them, and Jayla unconsciously treats her as such. Her eyes settle on the tanned Antivan with a cool sort of indifference.

  
“Was it. How fortunate for me then, that it is not a true issue my children are gone.” The quiet nature of those words strike like a hot iron. Josephine flinches, and refuses to look anyone in the eye. “Well, Leliana?”

  
“The Commander originally advised against alerting you. It was my decision to continue to stall in telling you. We are taking care of it.” 

Sparks lick at Jayla’s skin and flash in her eyes. They were taking care of it, were they? Taking care of it how, exactly? Setting up a sob story about the poor little rabbit eared orphans of the Herald’s having been kidnapped and murdered? Rumors to gain support just like her title? Jayla is so beside herself her sparks are less sparks and more a true fight to keep her magic from flooding the room. Her aura whips around her, produces the lightening, heats the room, but never leaves her hold.

  
“My lady,” Vivienne is the one to speak next, her eyes shrewd, voice stern. “You must calm yourself – “

  
“If you speak one more word, Vivienne, I will throw this desk at you. Those are my children out there, alone, scared. Do you know what it is to see a child that may as well have lived in your womb cry with a knife at their throat? Do you know what it is to race through the Fade trying to find them? Do you know the pain of hearing only three of the six call out for you?” Jayla’s hand slaps onto the table, making those assembled either jump or flinch. Those behind her, Varric, Isabella, Fenris and Rickson, they frown, and their eyes watch the others keenly. Having to deal with an angry, terrified mother on a journey that should take nigh on a week, that they executed in mere days, is enough for anyone to wonder what the hell was going through the minds of others.

  
“You forget, darling, I was the First Enchanter –“

  
“You say you lead the last loyal mages. How many children do you count among them still living? Or were they cut down by Templars while you stood back and watched!? Or were they manipulated, threatened into not rebelling? Were they made tranquil for their own safety? How many do you- would you let be cut down under the sword for desiring a safer place to grow and learn? Because that is what the Rogue Templars do, they kill any mage they come across! No one is safe from that – and you boast -”

  
“Vhenan –“Solas shifts, his voice is rough, and he looks terrible. It can’t be said enough. He is rumpled, unshaved, bruised, and gaunt. Jayla hates to see him like this. “None here know what we feel. None of them have taken children into their heart like you or I with these little ones. Please, do not fault them for it. We are doing the best we can with the resources afforded to us.”

  
Oh, how loathe he is to protect these humans. Incompetent, petty, utterly useless humans. However, he knows he must. They are all key components of the Inquisition, and without them, Jayla will fall. The army will fall apart, the spies will run amok. The Inquisition would fail without them as much as it would fail without Jayla.

  
“How can you stand there and protect them?” His ears twitch and tired blue eyes settle on the woman who’s stolen his heart for her own. “How can you tell me they are doing the best they can, when our children are gone, Solas. You have heard the cries in the Fade! You’ve heard how scared they are!”

  
Her nails are gouging into the wood and if she isn’t careful, Jayla will break every nail off. He wants to reach out, to move her hands from the table, to whisper words of comfort. He cannot, for he feels as helpless as she does. Instead, it’s Fenris who gently takes the young mage’s hands, who draws her into his embrace.

  
“We have done enough, my tapestry has been started, my connections made. Harritt will receive the newest schematics, and distribute them accordingly when they are complete.” Her voice is hard, but devoid of something. Again, Solas worries. She’s cutting herself off. Cutting them off.

  
“Cassandra, Rickson, Varric, Fenris, and Vivienne will come with me at first light the day after tomorrow for Redcliffe Village. It’s time we speak with the Grand Enchanter. The rest of you, look for my children as if the world will end if you don’t find them alive.” Near black orbs flashing with power settle on each of the people staying behind, placing weights upon their shoulders.

  
She leaves with an abrupt about face, dragging Fenris behind her, Rickson and Varric leaving not long afterward, seconds after them really. Isabella, however, stays. Leaning her hip against the table, she watches the trio gather up the children still within the borders of Haven, and leave the chantry. The room is deathly still.

  
“It would seem, Leliana, you made a rather large mistake.” The Antivan rogue purrs from the sidelines, his face grave and showing his age. He knew, of course, what had transpired. He is a rogue worth the money paid for him, after all. But this, this is a mess so big he has no idea how to approach it.

  
“Zevran, this is not the time –“

  
“Oh, but it is, Carina. It is. You are becoming a woman I do not recognize. When we were young, you would not have hesitated to turn the world upside down to find those children. Now you are not even telling their mother they are gone. This is a bad path to take, old friend. A dark path.” Moving out of the shadows, he watches as the others in the room take him in. The Qunari looks nonplussed, he had, after all, known he was there. The Seeker is a touch startled, very wary as is the Commander.

  
“So, okay. Boss is on the precipice. The Inquisition is a moment away from falling apart. But – did anyone tell her what’s been going on in the town? You know how much of a stickler she is for equality and fairness. The amount of attacks –“

  
“I have made her aware, Iron Bull. She is not happy, and will likely be addressing the issue once she’s rested a touch. From what I understand, she came in with your people, ate, and came here.” He sways a touch as he speaks, cadence startlingly slow.

  
“It’s a good thing those we caught in the act are in the dungeon then.” Cullen sighs heavily, running his hands through his hair, ruining its neat appearance. “The ones who managed to slip our notice, however, are going to be a problem.”

  
“My dears, simply appease the woman and be done with it. We have too much to do to worry about all the grievances that have been brought to bear. She hasn’t the time to deal with it all.”

  
“That, Madame de Fer, is not your call to make.” Solas’ voice cracks like a whip, the fatigue vanishing for a moment. “

We will not decide what the Herald does and does not know, what she does and does not address, if you haven’t noticed, that woman will move the Fade if she so chooses in the name of doing good. Do not underestimate her willpower nor the power of her perception when it comes to those around her.”

  
He’s tired. So, damned tired of this. He wants his children back, his pack around him. He wants to sleep for a year and hold Jayla in his arms. Debating with Vivienne is not his top priority or even a middling one.

The edicts had been given. In mere days, the dice would be rolled on the fate of the Rebel Mages, and hopefully they could find one of the children. Just one of them who could lead them to the others. They only need to find one.

  
Jayla leads Fenris and her small ones to the snow covered home beside the chantry. 


	42. I will, I must

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some progress comes in the search.  
> Some things change within Haven

It’s the first time Solas has gone to her merged with Action since their departure from her. The pain of the lost children outweighs the rage of leaving his mate. The wolf just wants to see her, to try to find the children together. Perhaps – two are always better than one.

What he finds, is his Herald alone, wandering toward the edge of her dream. Here, here Jayla looks so much older than she should. He hadn’t truly noticed before. But this, it’s wearing on her, more than anything else she has endured. Her eyes are without light, her arms curled around her, nails running over her skin – scratching.

Action howls mournfully, a sound that reverberates through the fade. A sound that makes the young rogue-mage’s head lift. Recognition flies over her face, loneliness, sadness. Action has been barred from her since their fight. By Solas, not Jayla. It pains them both too much.

“ _Vhenan_ – you do not look well.” He words are soft, and perhaps not the best choice, but it is the truth. Here her hair is wilder than it is in the waking world, her face smudged with dust. Tear trails decorate her cheeks.

“Action. You hear them?” He doesn’t even have to strain to know what she speaks of. Demons are calling in the voices of their children. Despair, Vengeance, Terror. They are out in force, feeding on their negative emotions.

“I do. Come, we can search for them together.” He can feel the way the demons bear down on the young mother. They know, perhaps better than any, how attached Jayla is to those children. They are certainly plaguing him with the sound of Eldhru crying. It comes as a surprise when her hand clasps his like it is a lifeline. He had thought, feared, that Solas barring them from her, would make her resent him. Make her put two and two together. Instead, the stress of all that is occurring, this displaced life, the training she puts herself through, the children, she is hurting, and he is the least of her problems.

It is comforting, and upsetting as he leads her out of her dream and into the Fade. Here, the world is shifting, reflective of where they are within Haven. He does not hesitate to walk her to the room where her children lay, their dreams, not lucid like a mage’s, glow quietly. It gives her a measure of comfort, he can see it in her face. But it is a small measure, and he is quick to lead her away from Haven, forcing himself to listen for Eldhru’s crying.

The louder it becomes the worse it effects Jayla. They are in the hinterlands, when she gasps as if she has been stabbed, stopping, tears running down her face. Action is there, gathering her into his arms, letting her wail her despair. He is not surprised when the demons fall upon them. She is too distressed for them to be kept away – _he_ is too distressed to keep them from them both.

 _Mamae!_ Delphine’s voice echoes around them, _Papae!_   The sound makes Jayla wail, and he clutches her tighter as she cries. He cannot deny the way the child sounds – desperate, pained – does not affect him as well. It tears at him, to hear the little girl’s cries and Jayla’s mixed together. He roils with uncertainty, fear, desperation. How can they fix this? Solas is at a loss, without the greater margin of their magic, they cannot accurately pin point the children, and they cannot travel as quickly as they need to in the waking world.

 _“What sort of mother are you, to leave your children with no one to protect them?”_ The whispers in her head – around her, make Jayla want to crawl into a hole and die. Her kids, gods alive she should have kept them close. It was safer than their home! It jars her, to think that, to know that. It reeks of when she was back in her own world. Things, as she got older, became progressively worse after seemingly having been fine.

It can’t happen here.

 _“I can make it safe.”_ The whisper is low, too warm, too close. _“I can help you.”_

“Jayla.” Action’s voice is low as well, but not menacing, not like the too warm, too close one. “We must keep going.” He looks strained. Her eyes take in the way the red of his irises seems dull, how the skin around his eyes and mouth is pulled tight. Action…

“I…” The whisperer is there again, pressed against her side. Why can’t she see it? She knows it is there. Can feel it? Can’t Action see?  Confusion fills her. Promises, promises.

“ _I will help you, I **can** help you. I travel faster, I am stronger, you **need** the purpose I provide.” _ Purpose? She has purpose. She’s the “Herald,” a defect-o leader, a fighter, a mage. A mother. She needs no additional purpose. _“You need me.”_

Does she? Does she need help? Yes. Yes, she needs help. The moment the thought passes into her mind, a cord snaps around her and she sucks in a breath. Warmth suffuses her body and her eyes glow. Action stiffens beside her. He says nothing. Has she not made a deal with him, after all? It is dangerous, what she does, but, how can he stop her? In her place, he may very well do the same thing.

Solas rages in their shared mind, fear controlling him. Action shakes his head, hand tightening around hers, making Jayla look over at him. “You tread a dangerous path, Vhenan.”

“We – _I_ – need help, there was no bargain struck, Purpose offered, I answered, no exchange.” Her voice is dull, dual toned, and her eyes flash in offense. Perhaps not her offense, but offense all the same. He shakes his head, an annoyed breath leaving him. She will do as she will.

“You have no right to judge,” the whisper is all warmth and cloying interest. Purpose is so easily twisted, he can only hope they do not do so tonight. They walk on, and Purpose extends Jayla’s power out like a blanket, looking for the truth. The magic sparks where demons linger, and they retreat, slowly, but they retreat. Action worries silently.

Eldhru whimpers, Tara cries, Maël and Delphine are yelling for one another for her, for Solas, Corrado and Varhnen are silent still. It is a cacophony of all the children reaching for her, needing her. Her heart seizes in her chest and she allows Purpose to propel them forward, toward the sounds. Where are they? Who took them? Why is she allowed to hear them and, yet they cannot hear her calls?

At some point, Jayla’s hand leaves Action’s, her concentration focused solely on the task of finding the children. Where? Where are they! Anger, frustration, they curl in her gut as she continues to be unable to find the children. Dawn is approaching she can feel it, the shift in the air of the Fade as those who wake before the dawn begin to do so. Dreams wink in and out of existence around her. It is disconcerting, but she walks on, she will find a clue, something, before she wakes. Anything. Stars, just something.

They have been walking the whole night, with Jayla and Purpose becoming increasingly more aware of their surroundings. Her power, aura, _essence_ is blanketed across the Fade in this area, and Solas-Action-Fen’Harel is awed. She is mortal, she is human, and completely unafraid of the way Purpose stretches her. She is more than they first assumed and yet, she somehow finds herself lesser. He can see it in her eyes as they stop at a gate.

“I can’t feel them anymore,” despair rips through Jayla as she and Purpose speak. No Eldhru, no Tara, neither twin, none of them. No cries rend the air, no whimpers. It is silent, like death, and that scares her more than anything.

Solas is the one who notices where they are, and nudges Action to give the information. “It seems, this is the King’s Road. It connects Redcliffe to the Capital, and the Bannorn. This, at least, gives you something, _Vhenan_. You have a clue, we know where to start.”

“Redcliff,” she breathes the word and her fists clench. “We start in Redcliff then. The mages, my children, I hope we find them. Purpose, you did as you said, it’s time for you to go.”

That warmth curls inside of her chest, there is a feeling not unlike a hug before Jayla is alone, the bands around her chest disappearing save for the one Action placed there. There is a cavern in her now, a space that is empty and feels oddly. Her hand presses against her sternum as she tries to make sense of it all. Purpose had not augmented her, she knows because she feels as if she strained a muscle. The spirit had pulled and pulled _and pulled_ to get as much of her spread out across the dream as possible. She’d felt other people’s minds, seen the little glowing dreams of the untalented. Some laced with fear, while others were seemingly pleasantly dreaming.

The sensation was unlike anything she could describe. And standing there, in front of the gate on the King’s Road, Jayla tries. She tries to find words to speak about what just happened. She keeps meeting those red eyes and having to look away, because she simply cannot form the words needed to answer the question he’s going to ask. What was she doing?

“Are you, all right?”

“Hm, oh, yes of course. Purpose just… She left quite the impression,” Jayla replies softly, once again sounding exhausted. She feels wrecked, and her hand leaves her chest to brush against the stones. “Redcliff. I hope they have something for us to find. Whoever took them, whoever keeps making them cry – I can’t say that I’ll be merciful to them. Not for this.” Her hand falls away and she yawns mightily.

“This dreaming thing, it’s not even really restful.” She grouches and reaches for Action’s hand. “I’m going to wake myself now, and hopefully fall back to sleep without seeing the Fade. I hope you don’t mind, but –“

“You are exhausted. Go, find the place where dreams are not allowed.” His hand threads into the dense coiled locks of her hair as he speaks. The smile on his face is tender when her face presses against his hand. How he loves her. How he misses her, and the little ones.

He is opening his mouth to say more, when she winks out of existence, leaving him alone with only Solas and the dreamers who do not really dream. They part from one another, and Action takes his preferred form. “You are breaking her.” His words drip with anger, accusation and he will not look at the other half of his spirit. Solas, who looks as haggard as Jayla had, stubble on his head, eyes sunken and bruised, says nothing. What can he say? What defense can he give here that isn’t ultimately selfish. So, he stays quiet for a pregnant, awful moment.

“I can only hope she is stronger than we have hoped to make her. She will not break over the loss of us, old friend. She is not that woman.” His voice rasps and he sighs heavily, shoulders hunched, truly hunched, as he curls in on himself. “Jayla is more than any human could ever hope to be, and she is far too good for the likes of us.”

“Hn.” Action sneers and starts to walk toward the gate that had been the blocking point of their search. He sniffs at the air and grimaces. “Something is not right here…”

 

When Jayla finally rouses herself, the sun is just barely peaking over the mountains. She feels like death, but at least it is a rested death. A thought that makes her snort, and head for her basin of water as quickly as she can. Her fingers draw a fire run on the bottom, with a containment one around it, and she lets fire flair to life around the bowl. A trick that Purpose left her, something to help, she’d said. Something to calm her.

Well, the capture flame is quick to warm the chilled mountain water, and her bathing is not all together unpleasant. But what comes next, the ride to Redcliff is not something she wants to embark upon. Even though that is her clue as to where the small one’s are, Jayla would much rather ride on to this Denerim. It would make sense, Josephine has been reciting contemporary history for her when they have moments to do so – and they are only moments.

Denerim has a history of being a shifty place if one knows where to look. Not nearly as shifty as Kirkwall, but no place is quite like that. Still, it has its seedy underbelly and Jayla would bet every star in the sky that that is where she will find her children. Someone creating a Slave ring or even attempting to ‘liberate’ mages in a coercive faction would definitely seek to do so in a large city. A city where you can become lost as easily as you can become known. Would that she could simply ride to this place and turn it upside down for her babies.  

Life has become quite complicated lately. Her door rattles when a booming knock sounds through the chantry home. It’s enough to startle her, but not enough to keep Fenris from getting to the door before she can even think to do so. She feels a small sort of comfort when the door is opened, at sword point, to reveal only the Commander. A bitter sweet comfort.

“Lady Shepard.”

“Commander?” She doesn’t move from where she’d stopped at the edge of the stairs, well behind Fenris.

“I have some information for you.” The words are hopeful but his face. She edges closer, heart in her throat. Fenris murmurs something at the taller man and he nods sharply.

“He has word from the scouts.” The rumbled words send Jayla’s heart into a frenzy.

“Come in, Commander. Tell me everything.”

 

 

Cullen rubs his hands against his face. What a mess this was, the Herald’s children gone, her lover estranged, her friend clearly in love with her. He wonders, as he walks to his tent, when things changed so drastically. Lady Shepard had always been a handful, but the fastest learner he’d ever witnessed. She was singularly dedicated to her task, and yet somehow managed to grow beyond what she had been expected to be.

A battle mage who refused to kill at arm’s length. A battle mage who was more adept with a dagger than any staff placed in her hands. She is, in short, a threat. Formidable, with a grace and charm that he has only seen in two other women.

He wonders, as the flap is pushed deftly aside, and he stands in his tent, why it is the Maker continues to send women to the sides of men who, in no way, are worthy of them. The Warden, Hawke, and now Lady Shepard, all fighting relentlessly to keep their worlds turning. All suffered their own versions of broken hearts. He finds it fascinating.

If he could only get his head out of his ass when it comes to her, they might have a fair chance of winning this faceless war. She has an excellent grasp of tactics, socially speaking, and is a fierce leader. The longer they watch her, the longer Cassandra travels with the woman, the more they speak of making her Inquisitor. They need one, leaderless as they are right now, no one takes them particularly seriously unless they have been working within the region. That in itself has swelled the ranks, but with men and women more suited to guard duty than the battle field. Few are Templars who come seeking some stability. Some on Lyrium still, most slowly weening themselves off their private stores.

He settles in his chair, eyeing the map and it’s markers that he has made. His eyes are heavy, spirits rather battered after the Herald’s dressing down of the council, but he will not sleep tonight. He has not slept longer than thirty minutes here and again since the children disappeared. How can he sleep when they could be being harmed, possibly sold into slavery or worse?

Not that Cullen can do much to save them. He is Commander of the army, not of the intelligence. Leliana is in control of how information flows with the camp. She is cold, calculating, but not untrustworthy. Though, he fears that Jayla has lost faith in that last fact. And what have they done to bolster her confidence in them? Not much, by his count. If anything, she should have removed him from his position. He has attacked her, physically, he has been lapse in his judgement where it concerns her children – where it concerns the wellbeing of small lives that were entrusted to this town – his town.

His hands numbly remove the gauntlets from them, letting them thud onto the table. What a mess they have created. He and Leliana most of all. They each saw the Herald differently, and treated her more as a tool than a person. Leliana did not at the beginning, but now, now that the girl – woman- is blossoming into something powerful, that erosion of selfhood seems to be beginning.

He is reading reports, the ones marked for today, and his mind is torn. There are no mentions of any trails or sightings of the children. It is still as if they vanished off the bridge to Haven. No tracks, no telltale signs of horses.  It reeks of magic, and that alone puts him on edge. Mages targeting one of their own does not bode well for the inquisition in it’s endeavors to help the mages in their plight. Jayla is dead set against going to the templars, and after his actions toward her, he cannot fault her logic.

Heaving a sigh, he presses thumb and forefinger to either side of o his nose. He feels the beginnings of a migraine, one not brought on by the lack of lyrium in his system for once. But the cause is no less serious. Idly, Cullen wonders how it is he got to be here. At eighteen he was confirmed a knight Templar and now – now the Templars are rogue, he has been through torture, survived it, watched his Knight Commander go mad – and survived that as well. Now he is in the thick of a battle for the world to continue – and he is only thirty. It makes Cullen wonder exactly how Jayla feels about all this. How she can cope with what her life has become.

She was never a warrior and not a mage. Just a woman, just an entertainer. Now the leader of the Inquisition. Oh, no one says it, but they all see her stepping more and more into the roll. She makes the hard calls, though she does not relish doing so. She makes the decisions to elaborate her cover story, she is the one out there closing rifts and garnering support and renown for them.

“Commander –“

The sound of the recruit makes him jolt, and his head whips toward the tent flap, which is still blessedly down. Taking a moment to compose himself, he gruffly calls the recruit in. “Yes, what is it?”

“We’ve found something, it may be nothing but it –“

“Tell me. Tell me everything.”

Her heart is in her throat as she sits across the table from Cullen. He has his hands folded on the table top, and his eyes are intense on her own, boring into her as he pieces together what he will apparently tell her. Jayla is moments away from demanding he just spit it out already, when Cullen sucks in a breath and begins to speak.

“My lady, a recruit came to me late in the night, there was word of suspicious figures lingering just outside our hunting boundaries. I did not wish to wake you, and so took a scouting party myself, just before the sun was due to rise. Those that had been spotted had vacated, though it looked to be in haste.

The camp that was found was well appointed. They had been observing the town for some time. There were scraps of missives littering the place, and we’ve managed to piece together orders to have the children taken. It’s more than we had before light this morning, but we cannot find a single shred of evidence that will point us to where the seven have been taken. Just that we were being watched, and this attack was planned. I feel that it must be whomever killed the Divine, now out to make sure you are taken from the fight by any means necessary to do so.”

“By any means necessary…” the richly colored young woman murmurs in a slight daze. The enemy was real then, not just rogue Templars and mages at one another’s throats with the innocent caught in the cross fire.  The town had been watched, the removal of her children premeditated.

“They separated them, I heard their cries in the fade, a broken arm, Eldhru crying, not knowing where Corrado, Varhnen, or Tara are. Commander, _Cullen_ I need you to help me find them. Today we will be taking care of the recent rash of racism that besieges the Inquisition, tomorrow, tomorrow when I leave for Redcliffe I need you to follow that trail. Not one of your best, _you_ and a small squad.” Trusting Cullen is difficult. Jayla would no sooner turn her back to him than conjure a storm of rain here in the valley. It’s madness. However, Rutherford came to her with this information. He brought the information to her when he could have kept it to himself. He has taken responsibility for the wrongs he’s committed the mistakes he’s made.

She must give him a chance.

“I need to speak with the others, the parties are going to be changed, I need one of mine to go with you, at least. Someone who knows the best way to get information to me the fastest.” Not Solas, she – just couldn’t give Rutherford Solas for the duration of her visit to Redcliffe… “Eric, Eric will be going with you, and Lady Vivienne. They both have the ability to get me the information I need.”

Action had showed her how to move in dreams, but she likely needed him to do so again. So, she will utilize him to get that information once they have it. Whatever the outcome of the investigation may be.

Fenris lays a hand on Jayla’s shoulder, his presence coming to stop behind her, and she leans back against him. He is solid and reassuring, his presence slowing the storm of her mind. He’d been starting the morning routine for the children, for them as well. Hot drink, fruit and likely oatmeal of some sort. It sticks to the ribs and would get them all to at least mid-morning when a snack would be required.

“Do you think we will find them?” She speaks softly, as if afraid to even bring those words into the universe. As if she is afraid of the answer. Truthfully, she is. If they couldn’t find the kids, that meant they were likely dead. Jayla knows herself well enough to know if the children are dead, she will break. There is only so much she can endure. There is only so much she will take before things are forced to change or bend to her will.

She desperately does not want to become that woman. But she will if she must, if she is pushed there without an alternative route given her or able to be made. Fenris’ fingers gently press into the skin of her shoulder.

“ _Amatus_ , we will find the children, and they will be alive. We won’t fail.” The cadence and tone are reassuring, though the name makes her blink, trying to focus on it, wonder what it means, what he could be calling her. In the end, that is not important, and she tilts her head back against his stomach.

“I hope you are right.”

 

The Commander leaves not long after, stepping out into the forest dappled with sunlight. He is a little bit like something out of a fairy tale. The golden knight who brings only solutions and never problems. The notion does not fully apply to Rutherford, Jayla, after all, knows what problems he can create. But right now, he is a golden knight, and she is reassured he is the Commander.

When the children are with Josephine’s assistant, vetted and trusted to keep them safe, sequestered in the chantry under an impressively large guard, Jayla requests to be taken to the dungeons. Fenris and Solas flank her, while the rest of her inner circle trail behind. It is as dark as she remembers it being. Perhaps danker, more wet and less terrifying, but it is not welcoming nor accommodating in any fashion.

“Tell me, gentleman, what the point of your attacks was.” She has been seated on a small barrel, facing the row of three cells, each holding three men. Men who look at her with contempt, and who eye her companions with double the venom she was given. None of them speak, and it makes her frown, sighing as she crosses her legs at the knee, leaning her forearms across her leg and leaning forward.

“I asked a question. Why did you participate in attacks upon the elven community here in Haven?”

“Community,” the scoff is followed by the hocking sound and spittle lands a little too close to her for comfort. “Rabbits ain’t got **community**. They’re rabbits, offer up their cunts and asses for a chance at more coin or a warmer bed to sleep at night. Not our fault, it’s just the way they are. Little useless sluts and whores –“

She feels bile rising in her throat. Just the way they are, no community, sluts for humans. The last part was only implied, but she’s heard similar arguments, not first hand, but within her history courses. It’s a bit like playing bingo, what stupidity would come from their mouths next.

“So, you say they are sex workers, _elven_ women and men are free to take any trade they wish, so they may contribute to the town. Sex workers provide a service, and that service requires payment, should such a thing even be true. But from the reports, these women were not prostitutes, they were maids and the tavern workers. Please, try again.” It’s remarkable she can keep a straight face or even keep her tone civil as she says words that taste like ash and acid.

“One and the same, _your worship_ , don’t you have a couple yourself? We all seen ‘em. The bald one over there, he _services_ you, don’t he? A shame, he probably can’t do what a human man can.” One of the other men leans against the bars, leering at her, violence in his eyes. It makes Jayla’s heart skip a beat as her face closes off.

“You will refer to Solas as Ser or Master Solas and nothing else. He is our Fade expert and will be treated with deference. Unless, of course, you would enjoy studying a rift up close and personally for me. If that is the case, please, say so. I will happily allow you out of your prison and sent straight to the nearest active rift for you to begin your observations.” Her foot bounces in the air, and she feels irritation curling up her spine.

“Elves, they get one human woman or man wrapped around their finger, and they all think they’re better than us. You, Herald, help them to think it. You encourage them, keeping twelve as if they were your own children, fuckin’ one of ‘em like he’s an equal. It’s wrong. They ain’t like us. They’re lower, lesser. Use ‘em, sure, for what they’re suited for. They aren’t strong, they aren’t smart, they’re a good fuck, a good bit of sport when you feel like hunting, but that’s it. Nothing more too them.”

Fenris and Solas bristle, Sera about launches herself across the room and only stops because Jayla tells Fenris to grab her. She chews her lip, standing up, she’s heard enough, walking silently from the room, Jayla locates Leliana and Cullen. “I want them in town center, there will be a court, anyone who feels they have been assaulted by them may come forward and present their evidence. Though they’ve already damned themselves.”

Her tone is resolute, and she makes her way to the town center. This had to become the norm, and she knows it isn’t. This world is feudal, there are those with power and those without. Equalizing it, she’d never see the fruits of her efforts here, Jayla knows that. She’ll honestly be lucky to live through whatever _this_ is. But she has to try. If no one tries, there will be no change. Not everyone is happy with the status quo. She’ll speak for those people.

It takes perhaps a whole candle mark for things to be ready. She pays several of the teenagers to begin making the announcement of a trial to be held and those assaulted to come forward and name the actions of their accusers. The dark woman prays that the women will come, that the men beaten will come. That _Solas_ will speak against those who have attacked him. If they don’t, well, the men will still be punished, but this will have been for nothing.

A fire is built in the square, a single chair set up facing where, likely, the accused would be standing. She lets out a deep sigh, and asks for three more chairs. Cassandra, Leliana, Josephine and Cullen will sit with her. They will render judgement _together_. She is no leader; this weight does not fall solely upon her shoulders.

She won’t become an oligarch. No matter how tempting it seems.

Another candle mark and a crowd has gathered, a dull roar of speculation and confusion can be heard all around where the makeshift courtroom has been set for the proceedings. A cool sweat has started on Jayla’s brow. Please, Stars, let those this has affected come forward. Her silent prayer is sent into the universe and she steps forward when Cullen arrives with the prisoners.

“As you have no doubt heard, there is to be a trial tonight. Haven has had a rash of attacks of late, against our Elven populace. This will not stand, it cannot. I have said it before, we must be better than those we set out to oppose. I am **ashamed** , and deeply saddened, deeply enraged, that this has occurred within the walls of Haven. Tonight, the leading council and I will hear the stories of the Victims, and the Accused may state their defense. Tonight, the leading council and I will render judgement upon these men, be they guilty, and if they are not, they will be let back into Haven. There is no bias here, there is no single Authority among myself and the leading council. You are all here to bear witness to the proceedings, to the Victim’s horrific abuse, and you are to remember it.”  She hadn’t thought to make a speech, though, Jayla never does think to do as much. It does not escape her notice there are those who look upset about this. That there are those who would much rather nothing be done about the atrocities committed. Let them die mad about it. She will not let injustice stand.

Turning, she gestures for the three advisors to sit and calls for Cassandra. Cassandra is on her right, and Cullen her left with Josephine and Leliana on either side of the knights. The guards hold the chains of the men who have been accused and more stand behind them. It is a strange scene, but Jayla supposes most things to be done for the first time are considered odd.

“At this time, I ask that those who have been assaulted come forward, and tell us your stories, show us, if you weren’t healed, the marks. No one here will judge you, know that we are on _your_ side, your race does not matter here.”


	43. Drag them forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are ~developments~

In the end, five young women come forward to tell their tales. One of the girls has a black eye, another a disturbing bruise around her neck. Of both these things they remarked at least the healer had taken away the pain and healed underlying damage, a fact that Jayla instructed to be verified. When it had been, she asked for the marks themselves to be healed, and the young women sent back into the crowd.

None of the men came forward to detail their assaults. Solas stood stock still watching the proceedings and did nothing. Said nothing. The council had balked when jail time came from her as a suggested punishment. It was the most humane way to deal with them, to put the Inquisition above death, but as Cassandra and Cullen point out quietly while they deliberate, a waste of resources on men they cannot guarantee will be rehabilitated. And they cannot spare the resources to attempt rehabilitation either.

So, here she stands, dagger tapping at her thigh, watching as the accused are lined up on the lake ice. She brought the court to order, it’s her who must deal out the punishment. Her job by her own appointment. There was no reason she should not do this, as while she pushed for something humane, she finally agreed to their deaths. So, it is only right the blood be on her hands, right or not, justice or not, it is still blood spilled, lives lost. Though, for once, Jayla feels no sickening roil of her stomach at the thought of these men’s impending demise.

“My lady, the sisters wish to give last rights.” The quiet request jars the now-Rivaini-woman from her thoughts. She snaps around to look at the gathered witnesses, the mothers who stand with heads held high. Last rights. A way to stand by the Maker’s side. After they _ruined_ lives? Claimed the innocence of women who should never have had such violence visited upon them. After they had injured men who did nothing but be born with ears to long and bodies to whipcord thin? Why should their afterlives be blessed? If they had killed those women and men, would they still get last rights? As far as Jayla is aware, elves and dwarves cannot be part of the church, they may follow the teachings, path tithe, and be married, but they are still _lesser_.

“No.” The word shocks her, but her eyes shutter, becoming hardened walls of deep unusually cold brown. “No one convicted of heinous crimes will be blessed to return to the Maker’s side. They will enjoy no forgiveness at the end of their lives. But, they shall burn as all Andrastians do.” Perhaps it’s her anger over her children fueling her, but Jayla knows exactly how they will go to the other side. Another about face, and her dagger is put away, she hasn’t drawn her magic for this purpose in some time now, but nothing will stop her from doing so now.

Solas and the other mages in the area stiffen as they feel the pull at the veil, the raw magic that floods the area as Jayla herself bursts into flame. It’s a terrifying sight to see, when she leaps into the air and a hammer appears in her hand. He watches, as the young woman who had only used storm magic in such an odd manner, know hurls flames at those condemned to death.

The heat coming off those hammers, off the Herald, is immense. Enough several of the guards take a step back, and the ones who had been escorting the condemned had fled the moment she lit up. There are murmurs around them, fear from those without magic, while the mages watch with something akin to awe.

She will always be an anomaly, something outside the norm, and gloriously so. Watching her exact justice on a few of the men who had perpetrated crimes against the People is comforting. Watching her, hearing her, essentially tell them they would go to the void before she allowed them a chance at the Maker’s side.

Such a proclamation carries weight, especially because of who she is perceived to be. Solas isn’t sure if Jayla in this moment understands what she’s done. It is expected for her to forgive the guilty before death, to give them redemption as an extension of the Maker. The chantry clerics expect it, he knew before the question was even put to the Herald they expected a yes.

She has painted the Maker as unforgiving, directly in line with the idea he has turned from them. Most may not make the connection, but she is distancing herself from the Chantry and keeping in line with the legend. The mothers are uneasy, Giselle stands with her lips tight and eyes unreadable. The Templars present are stricken, and Solas wonders how many of their number are ‘reformed’ rapists. He wonders how deep the hatred and dehumanization of his people run within the Shemlen of Thedas.

Jayla lands and watches the bodies burn. The air stinks, and she’s sure if she’d ever eaten pork, she wouldn’t have done so from this moment on. Turning from the scene, she addresses Cullen. “Post a guard, when the fire dies, the bodies are to be gathered by the guard and removed from the town. No one from the Chantry is to go near the bodies or fire.”

The stillness of the crowd does not make the dark beauty quail either, her shoulders are tossed back, and she takes a deep breath. Solas is unable to look away from her. Unable also, to reconcile the sweet woman he knows is within her, and this one who leads the Inquisition.

“No one will be forgiven for murder, no one will be forgiven for the rape and humiliation of another. Punishments for crimes against the Elven and Dwarva will carry the same weight as those given for humans. Haven will be better than the rest of Thedas, Haven will move forward and see change enacted even if I must drag each and every one of you to that end myself. I have said it once, I say it again now. If you believe Elves and Dwarva to be lesser than Humans, leave Haven within the hour. If you feel my word is out of place, if my word conflicts with your beliefs so completely that you cannot possibly follow me and the council on our journey to find the Divine’s killer and heal the sky – _leave_. There is no room here for those who will not embrace change.

Our world is not the same as it was half a year ago. It is not the same as it was even a week ago. The world moves, and so must we. To be stagnant or reluctant to such a thing is to invite the decay of your society upon yourselves. Tomorrow, I leave to find allies among the ‘rebel’ mages, the mages who dare reach for personhood, who reach for freedom, equality, a chance to live the life you are privileged to have. If you cannot abide this, you _must_ leave. I will not tolerate behavior such as the guilty exhibited, this will not be a den of crime, racism, or prejudice. We are meant to be a light, a beacon of truth and justice. I will be damned if I do not make sure we stay on that path.”

Her voice carries on the mountain winds, her markings glow in the firelight, her eyes fierce as they wander around the crowd. Solas is – as he always is – unsettled by her gall and impressed with her bravery. The woman he first met, while intelligent and capable in her own way, but she was not the woman standing in front of him now. In front of them all.

She was capable that first week in the Hinterlands, now, now Jayla is formidable.

 

She doesn’t sleep well the first few hours of the night. Demons taunt her, and whoever is holding the children – they’ve only let Maël, Eldhru and Delphine dream properly. Varhnen, Tara and Corrado she hasn’t heard a peep from since that first night. It terrifies her. Enough she wakes up with a cry in her bed after a Rage demon gets a little too close to her.

Sitting in her bed, she gasps deep breaths, hugging her knees to her chest. Part of her wants to go downstairs and slide into the bed with the other little ones, Mallory and Ben, Sylah. But to do so might cause them distress, they have been stuck to her like glue in the evening, but willingly sleeping in their room.  Is she neglecting them? Has she been making them feel lesser for being gone so often, for worrying so much about those not present?

Tomorrow morning, she would wake them, bring them down to the livery and let them see her off. Krem had offered to stay behind during her meal at the Tavern, to watch over Irina and six small ones still safe. She trusted him, the man carried a war hammer twice his size and moved with a quickness that stunned most. Between him and the guards, the children would be in good hands.

The floorboard outside her bedroom creaks and Jayla thrusts a mage light at the door way, lightening crackling between the fingers of her other hand. The Herald blinks when she spots the shock of white hair and glitter of lyrium. Her hand drops as soon as it registers who stands outside her door.

“Fenris?”

“Jayla,” he steps forward cautiously, squinting a touch at the brightness of the light she’d cast. Immediately it dims, her lips pulled into a sheepish look. “You cried out not long ago. Was it a nightmare?”

“Yes. Of sorts.” There’s no reason for her to lie to him. Fenris lives with her, stands beside her, has slept in her arms now more times than she should allow. Because she feels comfortable there. Safe.

And what a laugh that is, safe in the arm of anyone. No one protects her, she protects herself, she protects the people that she can, all of them when she can manage it. A laugh, because Fenris is a danger to her. Her mental and emotional wellbeing. She sees the pattern, she isn’t stupid. While he and Solas are different, they both enchant her. Solas had wiggled into her heart in a matter of weeks, and Fenris, while having a slower go of it, was doing much the same.

She’s not immune to wanting someone to share her burdens with. To have quiet moments of privacy that would heal her bit by bit. She’s so lost in her thoughts she doesn’t notice his approach to the bed.

“Jayla. Jayla?”

“Wha – oh, I’m sorry, Fen. I – I can’t seem to concentrate at all. The lack of sleep.”

“No doubt, coupled with missing your man, it is no wonder you are having a hard time.” He speaks lowly, carefully. She thinks back to just a few days prior, waking up with him wrapped around her, being wrapped around him in return had been nice. Until he opened his mouth.

“It might not be the best time, but I doubt there will be a good time for this. However, I owe you explanation and apology. I spoke without fully considering my words. You, are not aware of my past. It bears weight on my reactions, specifically to you in the last several days certainly.” He lingers at the edge of the mattress and Jayla slaps her hand down on it.

“Come on, in. I need you in here anyway.” She can’t lie to herself about it. He comforts her. And she is only a woman in the end.

“I was a slave, in Tevinter. I believe I had told you that at some point” He blurts out the words as he slides into the bed, removing his foot wraps and breeches after a few moments of silence. “It is where I acquired the brands, and lost my memories of what came before. What I have not lost, is the memory of my years with Denarius. He kept many slaves for many reasons. The prettiest of us were his entertainment. Women who danced, women and men to share his bed, to be shared amongst his favorite friends.”

Jayla stills, he had said he ran away, multiple times in fact, but Fenris hadn’t come out and said it. He hadn’t explicitly told her the chains had been on him. Her guardian, so strong, now she knows why.  “Fen –“

“The dancing, as I have said in the past, it is the dance of slaves. Meant to inspire lust and desire, meant to entertain. The clothing, the outfit, surely-“

“Fen, please. Don’t.” Her eyes close and her hand seeks out his. “I understand, but – I am still angry. I am no whore, I take people to bed because I care for them, not for money or obligation. Not to rise in station and certainly not for subterfuge.” Her voice is soft and hard at the same time. The words make him flinch, but he shifts toward her all the same, disentangling his hand from hers to draw her closer by the waist.

“I was not thinking when I spoke. I am afraid it is a common occurrence, especially when something vexes me.” His face slides to rest against her neck, and Jayla becomes somewhat boneless in his hold. How he can do this to her she has no idea. Solas comforted her, relaxed her when he held her. Fenris practically rips the tension straight out of her.

Her body shifts into his hold, and she sighs against his shoulder. He smells of blade oil and leather, something soft and yet completely masculine as well. It’s comforting in a way the scent of forests and books no longer are.

“Think before you speak, please, Fen. I don’t enjoy becoming so upset.” She murmurs it, tired straight to her bones. She’s tired of hurting, and being everything, she needs to be and nothing she _is_. All she is, is a dancer, a woman too young for any of this and desperately trying to keep those kids safe, happy. This is a harsh, harsh world, she just wanted them to have a few years to be children, months even if she’s being truly realistic.

Just a few months before this whole fiasco took the world over or she fixed it. If she could fix it. She must fix it. Leaning more heavily against Fenris she sighs. He holds her closer in response.

“I will try.” The words seem a little flimsy, a little lack luster to Fenris, but they are enough for Jayla at the moment. The dreaded woman shifts in his arms and looks relieved. Like a weight has left her shoulders. He was, in response, also rather relieved. Another misunderstanding would likely damage their budding friendship beyond repair, at least it would have had he not addressed his misstep from Kirkwall.

“Can you stay?” That catches him completely off guard, and makes the warrior stiffen. He hadn’t ever expected to share her bed again. Not after Rivain. Not with her clearly hurting.

“If you need me to, I will happily stay with you. It is no hardship.” He may as well tell her the truth. It was better than attempting to ignore those feelings. Keeping the air clear between them would only be beneficial to her rather than causing problems with secrets or half-truths.

Fenris feels her tense. He knows she knows of his attraction to her, so it can be surprise that causes that. He prepares to draw away from her, but she lifts her face, pulling back from him. “Fen, I can’t give you anything. Not anything solid, meaningful, I don’t think I’m capable of recovering from what Solas did –“

“I don’t need anything, Amatus. I don’t require your love, or your body, friendship perhaps. But nothing more. Your happiness is paramount, your health is paramount. You are the most important person here, Jayla, don’t you see that?” Fenris cants his head to the side, looking at her incredulously. He wanted to be honest with her, not make her feel as if he had to have a romantic or physical relationship with her to stay here. That was far, far from the case.

“You’re a strong, and capable leader, you take on much with this Inquisition. Not only that, with the children, attempting to quell the war between Mages and Templars. You are wholly different from anyone I’ve seen in these organizations. Your commander, he was in Kirkwall at the same time I was. His Knight-Commander was corrupt in very specific ways, and none of us truly knew just how until the end. She exacerbated a situation that was already at a boiling point. I am not proud to say I likely did not help things with my antagonistic relationship with Anders and awkwardness with Hawke.” He is rambling to try and make his point to her, to suss things out within his own head to find a way to make his point.

“But, I’ve seen strong leaders become broken. Hawke, after her sister and mother died, she was not complete. Anders made her happy, for a handful of moments. It put strain on her, to know she had failed them. It hurt her. Until she saw her brother again, whole and hale, she was a ghost of herself. Do not let Solas turn you into a ghost because of his idiocy. He can’t see beyond his own nose, or couldn’t perhaps, until the children went missing. But, it should not have taken that to show him his error with you, with them.” He rolls his shoulders trying to loosen them. It makes the dark woman shift, a hand planted on his back, and he braces for a pain that doesn’t come. Just warmth, a wonderful delicious feeling that startles him into silence.

“Solas – Solas hurt me, you aren’t wrong. I knew he would.” Her smile is wry, “people like me, who get tossed into the middle of things, the stories say we can’t be happy. I am inclined to believe them. Say I survive, and my words do make things better for the Elven and Dwarven populace. I will still be the Herald and he will still ultimately be a wanderer. I knew he’d leave,”

“You simply were not prepared for the callousness of it, nor how soon it came.” They move incrementally, speaking quietly. His hands awkwardly smooth up and down her back, while she simply holds him loosely. It’s comfortable, if slightly awkward. At least it is awkward for him. He cannot help it, he has never been adept at comfort, and his friendships are stilted at best. Fulfilling, but he kept people at arm’s length. It was – is – simply easier. With everyone but Jayla it is easier to keep his distance.

“I thought I had more time to prepare,” the admittance costs her, and he can tell, a little of her pride falling away. “I suppose it just puts it all in a kind of perspective. Things are moving at a speed I’ve never experienced, six months ago, I had a normal life, as normal as it could be, and now, my magic is apparently wrong, I should be wielding a staff, but blades keep me close to those I have to kill. It lets me remember every life I take, and it – it hurts to remember them all. All the templars we wiped out, the terrified mages. Bandits, the list goes on. Solas was a crutch as much as I care for him. I can and will say that much at least.”

In the dark of the room, her mage light dying, she can see his eyes shine. It’s beautiful. “I very much doubt that I will survive whatever end is in store for the Inquisition.”

The very thought horrifies Fenris. That Jayla was at peace with a death that isn’t certain – upsets him. His hands tighten their hold on her, fingers digging into her hips. “This is a hard life, I will give you that, Amatus. But you cannot accept an eventuality that is not set in stone. If you do – then you will not survive as long as you should. You will look for that seemingly inevitable killing blow and welcome it. That, that is one thing I will not tolerate from you. Those children downstairs need you. The ones held captive, they need you as well. This world, needs you. Thedas is taking notice of you, of your deeds. It’s hard to not take notice of you, you glow so brightly in a sea of uncertainty and fear. You give the dwarva and elves a chance. Without you – well, you’ve seen the result of what happens when the other humans of this town thought the elves had fallen from your favor. Don’t give in to anything, not even yourself.”

The dancer lays stunned, the discomfort of his fingers gripping her hips so tightly a far away thought. She had never thought of things that way. That she would _look_ for someone to essentially kill her. Was she truly wallowing so badly?

“Fen.” The nickname should irk him, but from her it is so many things. Breathed like that? He likes to think it is tired acceptance, or perhaps it is a thank you. He doesn’t care to ask when she presses herself close to him. “Stay, just, stay with me.”

“Always, Amatus. No one will take me from your side.”


	44. Paths merging, Chosen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the body and mind are working against one another. Sometimes the body overrides the mind.

She does not see Action that night, though she sees Strength and Command. They lecture her about the spirits she’s allowed into herself, about getting close to yet another male. Jayla takes it all in stride. They aren’t wrong. Allowing the spirits in has been reckless, but she’s been and will continue to be fine. The spirits will not garner contract from her, she’s aware, listening to their words carefully even in her distress. Saying that, however, does little to reassure her teachers.

Her drills are harder tonight, they demand more of her, from her magic, from her swordplay. It leaves her feeling exhausted, and reluctant to wake up, let alone venture out into the world like she must. But, she wakes, inevitably. At least the waking is pleasant, however, wrapped up in strong arms, with a warm body curled around her own. There is no mistaking Fenris for Solas any longer. Fenris clings where Solas held. Fenris is bold where Solas had demurred.

They are entirely different, and Jayla could not be more grateful for that. Keeping them apart within her mind, is about the only way to effectively guard her heart. She wasn’t lying the night before. She has nothing to give Fenris. Her heart is bruised, and battered, not fit to be given to anyone. Her physicality would not truly benefit him either. Oh, they would find release, but in the long run, it would be a waste. He very likely would miss out on a connection of a worthwhile nature while bedding her, following her.

Still, she is selfish in her desire for him to stay near her. Their connection is a strong one, for the lack of time around one another. The tether had been made the night she taught him to dance with the Rivaini. It solidified every moment he stood by her side and attempted to keep her from a harm that is impossible to block once it’s begun.

But these are fuzzy thoughts for the woman called Herald as she lays in her bed, warm, content, protected. Even as she turns into his embrace, pressing her face into the neck of his night shirt, her brain is muzzy and slow. Nothing makes her stop, the logic behind stopping, removing herself from the situation has still not made itself present. A dangerous thing, considering the events of the last fortnight. Still, she breathes in deeply, laying boneless in Fenris’ arms, her hands sliding idly over his side and shoulder.

It’s how he wakes up, to her face pressed against his neck, her small hand warm against his side and fingers scratching up through his hair. Sensations that are pleasant enough to make him groan, curling around her further. He too – is not fully awake, he is not fully aware and not making rational choices or decisions. She feels good, smells good, fits up against him in the right ways. His body heats with desire, a slow curl in his stomach that fans out along his nerves each time her hand swipes up or down his side and she makes a little content sound he has never heard from her before.

That desire allows him, drives him even, to duck his head down toward her, to nuzzle his face against hers for his arms to leave her, his hands on her hip, on the soft skin of her stomach. It will be a problem, this slow seduction that their base selves execute. Were that they were both awake and functioning properly – this would not occur. They know their boundaries. But in this moment, half asleep, half awake, desirous – him to feel her affection, and her to be somewhat healed by a person she trusts, that those boundaries. Her body is warm, tight, needing to be touched, to coil tighter and break apart at the seams – to purge the hurt in a way most people would crudely call getting over one by getting under another.

It’s why she does not hide her sounds of pleasure when his hands slide against her skin, why she does not balk to feel him harden against her thigh, why her legs shift and she brings him between them. It’s how she finds herself on her back, lips and teeth at her neck while slender hips roll solidly against her. He is thick, and not exceedingly long, from the feel of him. Her mind provides a fantasy of how it will feel to have him slide into her, to be stretched and held open by his length. It makes her shiver in his arms, hips tilting up toward his in invitation, her throat working out a low moan as the shift in angle has the rise of his cock pressing firmly against her pearl.

They hang in that place, of want and need, of base operations as his hands remove her night shirt, as he traces her curves to cup her breasts and bathe them with his lips and tongue. Even as she makes quiet, muted cries as he suckles at her, rolling against her, so close to having her without being near doing so at all. Fenris’ mouth doesn’t leave her but to switch breasts, there is no reprimand as her hands shove at his pants. She finds he is as thick as she thought, filling her hand to the point her fingers do not meet, and not exceeding the length of her hand. He thrusts into the circle she makes, sucking at her harder, rejoicing dully the way she arches and the soft sound of her pleasure.

He doesn’t startle as she lines him up, and does not falter when her slick warmth surrounds him. It stays slow, his mouth trading nipple for nipple his ears only listening for her pleasure. He burns for her as her hips tilt to accept him with each lazy roll, and she tightens whenever he sucks particularly forcefully at her breast, or pinches just a touch harder at the free and abused nipple in his hand.

His hips fit between her legs perfectly, not so wide her legs are splayed wide and hips angled uncomfortably. His cock fills her holds her open in the most delicious way. All she thinks is more, more, don’t stop, keep going. It feels more like an erotic dream than reality. Each thrust makes her ache intensify, that telltale sign that when she orgasms it will be strong and prolonged, it will take the breath from her. She looks forward to it, yet doesn’t strain. There is no lewd grunting or slap of hips in this. The dark of the room only hears the rustle of blankets and low moans, the pop of his mouth leaving one breast only to immediately fall upon the other. She is so sensitive from that treatment.

Prior to Solas, no one much paid proper attention to that bit of her, and even Solas was more interest in her legs and cunt than her breasts. Each suck sends a shock straight to her clit, and the way he rolls, the pressure he keeps with his hips fitted snuggly in the cradle of hers – it’s impossible to not become a shivering, writhing wanton thing below Fenris. Her hands slide into his hair, petting at him, holding him to her gently, as gently as he thrusts into her.

For him, even with her aura laying as does naturally around her, there is no pain. There is only the taste of her skin and the feel of her legs around his hips, the welcoming embrace of her body. He, in the past, only partook of sex that can be described as impatient. Insistent fingers on the parts of his partner that would make her meet her end the fastest, so he could chase his own. Like this, it builds slowly, slowly, so much so he doesn’t notice how close he is, how he thrusts a little harder, a little faster. He does not fully comprehend, if he his comprehending this at all, the way his suckling turns more insistent, the pulls focused, pinches demanding. He crushes her hips with his, sliding into her over and over again until her back bows and her body clutches at him.

She holds him tightly, her arms, her walls, they draw from him his pleasure and he groans against her chest, pressing into her as far as he can, thrusts sharp and short until it is over. They lay, with Jayla full of Fenris, surrounded by him, and catch their breaths. It is not daylight still, and the warmth, the glow of satisfaction draws them both back into sleep.

When they wake again, it is because Fenris has hardened once more inside her, and her body is not quite ready for the stretch, making her hips pull away and his follow. Her sharp gasp has his eyes open in an instant, and locked on her face. He is groggy, disoriented, and she looks the same. It takes him a moment to fully come into what is happening, but when her hips move, he groans loudly, lowly, and she gasps, a high-pitched noise that has his ears burning.

They both still, watching one another, shock on their faces, shame curling quietly inside them. Her legs are tangled with his, her shirt is gone, he didn’t realize she slept without smalls. His shirt is askew, but present, his pants and smalls a forgotten dream it would seem.

“Jay-“

“Fenris-“They start and stop at the same time. He has yet to move, she has yet to tell him to do so. Her teeth dig into her lip, gold winking at her cheeks, her cupids bow. Dawn is coming, light slowly lifting the blanket of night outside and within the house.

Jayla is conflicted, laying there under Fenris. She should be aghast, to find his cock nestled in her channel, and from the feel of it – his cum as well. She should be upset that her nipples ache and her body distinctly sore but satisfied. She had heard of sleep sex, of course, but never experienced it. Apparently, that is no longer true.

She should tell him to leave, be upset, be embarrassed. All she finds is that she wants to remember it this time. He is handsome, he is good to her, to let him in – it might be stupid but at least Fenris knows her hurts. He speaks to her of them, he does not go silent and simply leave. Is it a chance she’s willing to take again? So soon? Will it even help to heal what Solas had done to take him into her affection?

Will Solas be erased from her heart?

He clears his throat and Jayla makes a snap decision. If she tells him to get out of her now, he will never slide into her again. If she allows herself to stay upset, allows herself to crumble all because Solas left her, she becomes a stranger to herself. Is sex the answer? Certainly not – but he feels good, and he is safe. He makes her feel good and safe. She won’t give it up.

“Fenris, move.” She keeps her pitch low, and rolls her hips just so, biting her lip and groaning. She’s slick from his spend, but not yet on her own. “Touch me, please.”

He does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This happened.  
> I didn't plan for it. Seriously I'll post the outline. Sexy times is not on there.  
> Sit tight. Redcliffe castle looms. Next chapter. Finally. I feel like I've been telling ya'll that for like 10 installments lol


	45. You got me wondering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an egg cooperates, lines are attempted to be drawn, Alexius is creepy, and Jayla is generally an emotional roller coaster

When it’s time to get ready to go on their various ways, Jayla and Fenris walk into the stables as if nothing has changed. If a touch lingers here and there, well, that’s just a part of who they are around one another. No one seemingly notices the glow about either them, no one outside of Solas that is. It breaks him a little, to smell another man on her, in her. He’d wondered how long it would take for the young wolf to take what was his. He’d wanted this. Wanted Jayla to be gone from his grasp, where he could not have her could not become so attached that fulfilling his duty would become impossible.

However, to think such a thing is vastly different than being slapped in the face with evidence of the young wolf’s success. Jayla’s clear scent is now overlaid with Fenris’. Just as his is overlaid with hers. The gentle fragrance of the soap does nothing to hide from Solas the fact that they’ve coupled. His stomach flips, rolls, and he grinds his teeth so hard they creak. But, somehow, he is the only one who notices. Somehow, no one else can read the satisfied look on Jayla’s face, or the difference in how she walks. It’s clear Fenris left her feeling his presence. Solas hates it, that Fenris is by her side, with a shroud of peace lingering around her.

The entire Inner Circle is in the stables, and Jayla takes care to properly saddle her mount, securing her bags properly before turning around to look at those gathered.

“The parties will be thus: Cullen will head the expedition to follow those who spied on us. Ser Rickson, Lady Vivienne, Sera, Warden Blackwall you will accompany him. Cassandra, the Iron Bull, you will stay in Haven. Solas, Varric, and Fenris with me as we head for Redcliffe Castle. Should we find information on the lost children, we will be proceeding on after the Mages have been secured to track more leads. May the stars and your gods keep close watch over each of you while we are apart. I want word from the lot of you within the week, even if it is only to say nothing has changed or you have arrived at a base camp. There will be excessive communication until we are all back in our haven. Whomever has been watching us wants us off their trail, to stop being a thorn in their side, none of us are to give them an opportunity to again an advantage. If you are attacked – attack to incapacitate, and kill only as a last result, we need information, or we cede power to those who should not have it.”

Her voice is strong, sure, there’s a distinct lack of melancholy. He is grudgingly pleased. Jayla hurting is not the Jayla he loves. All the same, Solas’ hands grip his staff in a strangle hold. There are murmurs of ascent when her directives are given. Cassandra and the Iron Bull linger, while the Herald sees off Cullen’s expedition. Then she mounts her horse, a skill that she lacked some months ago, and now, to see her swing up into the saddle so fluidly, one would think she’d been born astride a horse.

“Cass, Bull, I need you to be my eyes and arms here. No more attacks, the children need to be under guard and the guards to be carefully monitored. There is no way we routed out all those who wish my views to change, and there’s no chance they won’t do something stupid while my back is turned.”

“Of course, Boss.” Bull replies easily, arms crossing over his massive chest. His good eye is sliding over the scene, watching the little wild Rivaini girl show the woman and leader the Inquisition needs in order to thrive. He also watches her former lover, and apparently, her new one. She has a type. Brooding men who don’t deserve he time she gives them. The marked Warrior, he’s heard quite a bit about him. He’d been in Seheron, he’d been enslaved, he apparently ripped the owners heart out. Bull respects that, but he doesn’t respect the man getting the Herald all twisted up in feelings again.

He watches those dark eyes of hers flicker over those remaining, and settle on Solas. There is still something tender in her eyes when she watches him, tender and broken. And the Fade mage? That man looks ready to ice over the whole town if only to keep Jayla away from Fenris. That one dropped the ball with a dexterity the Iron Bull has never seen before.

But Solas is shifty, hiding something, something big. No man is so placid, so fierce and passionate all at once. Not without a reason to be, and that reason is often a cause. Jayla brings the hothead out in the mage, the side that betrays the rest of him. Bull wonders if he knows. He speculates that is likely why baldy pushed her away.

Stupid reason. If you’re going to have a Kadan, you keep that person damn close. You treat them well, and you do _not_ allow another person into the relationship unless you both agree to it. Those three are a mess, and they need to sort themselves out _now_ before the real work starts.

“As you wish it, Herald.” Cassandra’s eyes glint in understanding and respect. Jayla is coming into her own, it’s an honor to see such a transformation up close. Her journal has been meticulous since this began, the truth would be needed when all is said and done. Varric would create a legend to last into the next dozen ages. Cassandra hopes to keep the truth for those who need the reminder.

With a final smile, Jayla clicks her tongue and leads her mount out onto the road, and then out of the town, Fenris, Varric, and Solas only a breath behind her. She rides hard, thinking of the night before last, when Action and Purpose had tracked Eldhru with her. No one asks for her to slow, though, no one speaks either until they hit the half way point when the moon is high in the sky already. The mounts are just as tired as their riders, and yet, Jayla takes the time to wash hers down, cooing to her, telling her what a good girl she’s been. The horse is given an apple as well before her feed, and then staked to rest near the river where she might get some well-earned rest and water.

He’s watching the Princess, because there’s a lightness around her that doesn’t quite fit after days of melancholy and rage. They’re hunting, and she is still as any predator - eyes sharp and magic coiled while he takes aim with Bianca. The game isn’t exactly plentiful, but even a small ram is better than nothing. It happens fast, one second there’s nothing, and the next, Jayla is up, and the ram almost bolts only for her arrow – magical of course – lands in its neck.

It’s the first time Varric has seen the woman puff up even a _little bit_ over getting her mark. She practically dances to the corpse, and does her customary thank you. Why – he still has no idea. It’s dead, the soul if it has one should be gone already, yet she thanks it and uses her magic to haul it toward camp.

“Whoa, Princess, what’s going on? I haven’t seen you so happy in a while.” Varric can’t hold his curiosity in, won’t hold his curiosity in. If something is going on with Jayla – he wants to know. Needs to know really. Good or bad, he’s going to watch out for her.

The way her eyes slide to him and then away, dark irises glittering with a bevy of emotions, does not instill confidence in him. Solas is surly as ever, so they can’t have figured their shit out. The kids are still missing, so it really isn’t that. He’s pulling string after string and discarding them as soon as he examines them. Until he locks eyes on a shock of white hair.

“Jayla.” His voice is insistent, and it has her pausing, setting the ram down with a sigh. “Varric?”

“Please tell me, that you didn’t start something with Fenris.” His eyes are on her, piercing, looking for a lie before she can even start to put one together. He doesn’t miss the slight widening of her eyes, the way her lips part just a touch before her teeth grind together. He waits for her to deny it.

“Varric, you’re one of my dearest friends here. You know all my secrets. You’ve taught me as much as any trainer has – but my love life, that’s _mine_. You can say it’s a mistake, to get entangled with someone else after Solas, you can tell me every terrible thing Fenris has done, but it won’t change anything. I choose to stay soft and able to love, I choose to be with him. He supports me, he’s there when I wake up crying after nightmares about the kids. He was there when Solas tried and failed to hurt me enough to make me hate him. I value your opinion, please, don’t think I don’t, but this – him. I need someone to be soft with, to remind myself I am not the woman I show others. Let me have that.”

And just like that, she’s turning, lifting the ram and waiting. His hands fist and release several times before he lets out a loud groan of defeat. She’s, if possible, worse than Hawke ever was. Hawke didn’t crumble when Fenris left, she didn’t even flinch when Blondie went down his path of destruction. Hell, Ava made all the wrong choices and stuck them through to the bitter end. To the very bitter end. He’s sure Blondie is in the Anderfels, he hopes to hell he is, far, far away from Hawke for once.

“Jayla, just be careful. Be soft, but don’t allow yourself to get beaten up again. Being yourself is important – being able to stay strong and not burnt beyond recognition is more important.” What else can he say? He could start a fight about it. But, Jayla has proven again and again she is going to do what _she_ thinks is right. Her morals are absolute, and she doesn’t deviate from them as far as Varric has seen.

When Jayla had taken Varric off to hunt, Fenris had gone about setting up the fire pit. He is silent about it, unwilling to engage the elder elf in conversation. To say their relationship is strained, would be to assume they even considered one another colleagues. If anything, Solas is a rival for Jayla’s heart, and clearly, after this morning, that isn’t the case any longer. There’s a smirk on his lips as he rolls that over in his mind.

Waking inside the small mage had been jarring, he hadn’t known what to say or do. He’d prayed, prayed that he hadn’t had sex with her against her will while she was sleeping. Raping her – anyone – is despicable, and he was quietly horrified at the possibility he had. He’d been looking for words to give for an apology, to find a way to extract himself from her gently. For her to have – well. For her to tell him to touch her, to bed her, had been a surprise. Welcome, but a surprise all the same.

If he closes his eyes, he can still see her bent nearly in half under him, hands settle on his arms, holding on and moving to meet him as much as she can. She is, was, delicious, warm and slick, conforming to him like she was made for him. It makes his mouth water, thinking about having had her, twice apparently. She’d kissed him, there at the end, yelling her pleasure into his mouth, and kept on until she couldn’t breathe. She’d ridden him to his end and gods what an end it had been.

They were compatible to put it lightly, and he looks forward to curling around her tonight. If only for a few hours, she brings calm to his soul, and brightens his outlook on life. But, Solas is nothing if not present and it’s hard to keep hold of that brightened outlook.

“I can smell her on you,” the growl as he piles logs makes him tense, pausing for just a breath before he continues to stack the wood. There is a touch of pain in those words. It serves he older man right.

“I would apologize for such a thing, but I find I cannot be anything but happy you are aware of our coupling.”

“She’s too good for you.” The bitterness of those words makes him laugh, pausing with his arms against his thighs, real mirth flowing through him.

“She’s too good for this god forsaken world, I have no illusions as to my worth, Solas. But you are even less worthy of her than I am. So please, do not make this a fight between us. I hold no care for you, and little regard, but I respect **her** enough to not fight with you. You’ve hurt that woman, and I will not hesitate to cut you down should you attempt to do so again.”

He watches the way the older man snarls, and it is a snarl even if those eyes are closed off, that face barely moves. It’s in the way his lips pull, the tensing of his jaw. For a moment, a tense moment, Fenris wonders if he will be attacked. His sword is three feet to the left, but he is never without his abilities. It’s much like being watched by a wolf, and the irony of that is not lost on Fenris. Here he is, named for the creature, and yet a man called Pride is the one acting like the predator.

But that menacing feeling breaks, and the older man turns away, shoulders slumping. He murmurs in elven, words Fenris only half hears and understands less than that. The phrase, as you wish, is there, and he is sure, Solas is stepping aside properly now. In a strange way, the man had kept hold of Jayla. Kept close, kept himself at the forefront of her mind, even when they all were working on other things.

If Fenris wasn’t completely sure the man wouldn’t touch blood magic unless he was dying, he’d suspect mind control. No woman he has ever met is like Jayla. Her focus is absolute, but her focus is also fractured. As a warrior, that can both save and cost you your life. For a rogue, well, rogues live half focused and half fractured. He hasn’t met one yet who did not grab hold of a goal and still be able to see every single hinderance or threat to their completion of it. Mages, now mages cannot afford to become overly splintered.

That life is a life of vigilance, of study and likely fear. Hawke was always reading, Anders was reading as well, they were always questioning, looking, be it over their shoulders or for answers. It pains him, just a touch, to think of Ava and her menace of a partner. That she’d kept him, well, he will always disagree with that. But, he has no place to voice that in her life.

He has a different life now and a different woman. A woman who straddles the lines or wipes them out completely to draw her own boundaries. And she is quite magnificent. The silence between them continues until Jayla has returned with Varric and a small ram. More lamb than ram if one is being completely honest about it. With a quiet smile, Fenris joins her and helps her to skin, bleed, and gut the animal. He lets her go about dressing and cooking it, knowing his help is not needed and won’t improve a damn thing about the food. He does help her get it onto the spit and sits with her as it cooks.

“So, Princess, how hard are we riding tomorrow?” Varric breaks the silence, unable to bear it anymore. It isn’t oppressive per say, but it isn’t comfortable for him either.

“We’ll be going until we come to the Crossroads. From there, if the town needs anything we’ll do it, and then Redcliffe. We must get the mages behind us as soon as possible. I – I have a strange feeling they may have seen the kids.” Jayla stumbles a touch when she tries to express what she’d learned in her dreams. She knows Varric can’t dream, so say those around them, and Fenris still doesn’t quite trust all that is magic. Which, honestly? That’s completely fair.

“A hunch, huh? All right. So, we’re going in hard, and hopefully coming out with our hands full of new allies to house and feed.”

“It won’t be so bad,” she shrugs, and turns the lamb spit, sniffing critically before urging the fire hotter. It’s controlled, but all the men present, even Solas, lean away from the display. “The mages will be able to help with food production just as any other man or woman can. I’m capable of hunting, and I imagine after months on the run, so are they. Mages have more uses than just being pointed at a problem and either making us heal it or blow it up.” Her voice is a little judgmental and Varric sighs in response.

“Princess, you know I didn’t mean it like that. Haven is getting big, too big maybe. Have you seen the tent city forming outside the gates? The place wasn’t meant to hold this many people.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed. I’m worried about that, honestly. We need more room, and higher walls, more guards, more food, more clean places to bathe and places to deal with waste. One bad cold and half the town will be ill.” She speaks as she moves back to sit on the ground, positioning herself rather purposely between Fenris’ legs. The reaction is instantaneous, the warrior wraps around her, like they do this all the time.

Varric is sure this is the first time he’s witness them quite this close and so casually. It’s certainly one of very few times he’s seen Fenris so relaxed. Solas is resolutely not looking at the pair. This? This right here is going to be a problem. It was a problem before, but now it’s going to be worse. How is it when disaster strikes, love does as well? Honestly, why couldn’t they be sensible about this?

“So, what do we do about it? It’s not as if we can claim a nation for ourselves,” he chuckles but is dead serious. They’re essentially an independent army, and have pledged no loyalty to any sovereign power. How they’ve lasted this long is a mystery unto itself now that he’s really thinking about it.

“I have no idea. We can’t just attach ourselves to anyone, right? That would limit our ability to move?” She tips her head toward Solas, not an ounce of conflict in her as she addresses him. That she does at all is amazing and stuns the elf. That is clear as day on his face.

“It is not wise, no.” He speaks slowly, carefully. “Declaring ourselves to be of a nation means we must operate according to treaties and edicts laid down by that nation’s leader. The Inquisition is meant to stand apart from all, from the Chantry, from the Templars, Mages, all of it. The first was founded to fix a problem as this one was. It stood apart until the Inquisitor became friends with the Emperor of Orlais. He disappeared not long after.”

“Right. Okay, so no making friends with leaders of nations,” her eyes are wide, and her hands scrub over her face. “We need room, we need walls. But, we can’t exactly think about that right now. Right now – we need to get to Redcliffe, make the Grand Enchanter an offer she can’t refuse and move on. Seven months we’ve been at this, I can’t believe it’s taken so long to get _here_.” Her fingers tug at her dreads and Solas is the one to stop her.

“Jayla, it is not as if the lot of us have not been going from the first day we set upon this quest. You’ve stabilized _two_ regions, spoken to the Clerics, recruited high ranking and powerful people into your inner circle, and you now are going to attempt to quell a Rebellion. Not in the most traditional of senses, but you are. That is worth much, do not think you’ve failed when we are just beginning.”

Varric is still as stone and Fenris is as well. It’s the first time they’ve seen the two interact properly since the split. They’re… fine. It doesn’t seem right. Yes, Solas looks like hell, and Jayla only slightly better, but they aren’t at one another’s throats or completely awful to one another, like so many split up couples are.

It’s possibly better and possibly worse, because it’s clear Jay still needs him and Solas is more than amenable to helping her. It’s almost as if they have time travelled back to when Jayla was newly here, newly the Herald. When it was simple kindness that brought them together. A comradery over being different amongst those who wanted them to conform to the way they believed they should perform.

Shit. This could go very badly for everyone involved. Because it’s not simple kindness and comradery anymore. It would likely never be simple kindness that fuels their friendship or cordial nature toward one another. The elder mage still loves the younger, and Varric will be damned if she doesn’t still love him. Fenris might be helping her, healing her, but she doesn’t love him yet.

Andraste’s tits. This is going to be a mess.

The night passes, surprisingly easy for Jayla, curled up with Fenris. Solas – he isn’t happy, anyone could see that, but he doesn’t say a damned thing, and that makes it easier. Makes the transition from him to Fenris not feel wrong. Not that it did. It’s just. Part of her is still missing. Fenris is here, curled up in her affection, and she feels warm, happy, normal. But not full, not whole.

It doesn’t make any sense. She likes him, adores him really with his grumpy ways and blunt manner. She adores that he tries so hard to be exactly what she needs, and succeeds for all his effort. But, he isn’t enough. That little empty spot nags at her, but she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t push Fenris away. No, she speaks with him more, if anything, learns more about him, how his name was – is – Leto, though he will not answer to it. How his sister is a mage. (Varric may have told some of Fenris’ story in his Tale of the Champion, but not all of it, not the important parts that make Fenris who he is.)

Honestly, his sister’s mage blood answers a few theories for her. Fenris also being mage blooded? Well, it makes a lot of sense to Jayla. Lyrium can and will _kill_ people. From what she’s heard mages are susceptible to lyrium poisoning as are templar, but everyone else can’t get near the stuff in its raw form or they become ill. Even the Dwarven Lyrium workers are said to have lesser life spans and they’re immune to lyrium by most accountings.  So, if humans and elves will become poisoned by it – and Fenris has it in his skin – he had to have some level of resistance or use for it. His body had to be able to accept it in some manner, at least according to basic science. Accept or reject. Works or doesn’t work.

This world makes her feel intelligent and yet woefully undereducated at the same time. Her hands curl into white hair as she dozes, looking at the wards Solas had placed. The same he had taught her, stronger, nothing with ill intentions of any sort would get in through those wards. She finds herself settling easier knowing that.

 

Morning brings them to eating while on horseback. She’d made them break down the lamb after the camp itself, each of them with a sizeable portion to work through as they mimicked the sun in their travel. They stop to water the horses, to grab some water themselves and munch on hard tack and lamb at the hottest part of the day, and then they are back at it.

She hadn’t been joking when she said they would ride until they made it to the Crossroads. There is too much at stake to dally now. The trail could go cold if they waited more than a day or two to have left haven, it would go cold if they lingered during any part of this journey. The children and Mages are her priority right now. After both parties are secured, she can move forward with the Inquisition’s purpose without distraction.

It is strange to her, that they aren’t at any point besieged by bandits or rogue bands of Templars or Mages. She hadn’t thought they’d stabilized the farmlands so well. It makes her swell with happiness to know the people are safe, that they can start to return to their lives. Of course, nothing is one hundred percent safe here, but they weren’t under threat of attack constantly.  In the long run, this might be a small thing, but it is _something_ and Jayla will take what she can goddamn well get at this moment.

At noon, Jayla sheds the lower half of her armor. Here, out of the mountains, it’s warm, and she can’t stand the leather on her legs anymore. She spies blue and green eyes on her as she does. One set stormy, the other just admiring. Her stomach twists and flutters. This... This could become a problem. It would be a lie to say she didn’t still love Solas, but, Fenris is rapidly crawling under her skin.

How could he not? He _listens_ to her, and doesn’t push her away because of who they are. At least, she’s fairly sure that’s why Solas did it. They never have broached the subject. Frankly, Jayla is afraid to. He brings out the worst in her at times, and well, to ask him why he did what he did. There’s too much stress around them as it is. Later, she can have that conversation with him later. When her little ones are in her arms and the Mages are secured to help them close that damned green sky asshole.

She rides bare legged for the rest of the trip into the Crossroads, not caring a whit that Varric continually teases the other two men about the vast expanse of leg currently being shown off. As if neither of them had ever seen them before. It is heartening, however, that they can be so silly on a journey like this. Jayla does not participate. She keeps her own council, and keeps her eyes on the road ahead.

Varric watches her carefully, as she manages to pull away from them. When feet turn to yards, the dwarf addresses the elven men in his company. “Princess hasn’t got any family here, not outside of those kids, but I love her like she was my own. So, I am going to say this once, and carefully. I don’t know what happened between you and her, Solas, but if I ever see her as upset, as angry, as she has been, I will put a bolt between your eyes. And Fenris, you already know I have your number. You keep her happy, or I’ll forget we’re friends. As for the two of you – get your shit together, find a way to work together without ignoring one another or antagonizing. The last thing we need is our healer and warrior injured or dead because they can’t get along for long enough to cover one another in the field. This right now, is about getting the mission in Redcliffe done, to get those mages back on the road to Haven so she can follow her hunch”

He says it all quickly, and darkly enough that the elves take notice. For once it looks as if them are on the same page for the first time since he’s seen them together. Dark looks are thrown his way, jaws tick, ears twitch in irritation but neither opens their mouth for a moment. He wonders if they’ve both figured out there’s no point in arguing what he’s said. Andraste can only –

“It is no business of yours, Varric, if the Herald and I have become involved. Just as it is no business of Solas’ if I share her bedroll, tent or bed. She is a grown woman, she makes her own choices, and it is best we all respect that.” He’s angry, those ears of his are pinned back against his hair and his gauntlets creak as he holds the reigns of his mount.

He sets off a chain reaction. Solas stiffens, and Varric silently groans. Young hotheaded warriors would be the death of him. First Carver, now him. Solas’ ears are pinned back now, and he knows hotheaded mages will be the death of him some day.

“Jayla has more to worry about than keeping anyone in her bed. She has children to keep safe, a town to keep from imploding and the sky to heal. Our association was never meant to last, and likely neither is yours.”

“Strange, I was under the impression it was not she who decided to end your association but you. Perhaps I dreamed those days of her sobbing for your return, dreamed holding her so she might sleep peacefully. I must have imagined how you bedded her one night only to withdraw the very next day. I must have imagined you leaving instead of meeting her the day she had her tapestry placed upon her skin. What an awful memory I have of my Amatus’ broken heart.” The growl makes Varric sigh.

“Enough. Both of you. Andraste’s ass it’s a wonder she sees anything in either of you. Antagonizing each other like children doesn’t make one side more right than the other. Neither of you is right. Solas shouldn’t have been an idiotic ass, and you should have kept your distance. Or is that your thing, Fenris? Garnering the affection of powerful mage women only to break their hearts when you inevitably run.”

“You have no idea what happened with Ava, Varric. It isn’t the same with Jayla. There is no pain, I trust her, I am not leaving her side.” Cowed, if only mildly, Fenris grinds his teeth, refusing to look at either man.

Solas stays silent, seething as he directs his mount to catch up with Jayla’s. To know the young wolf has already loved and left another woman is rather distressing. How similar they are. He boy is hotheaded, distrustful, a touch prideful. Solas cannot say Fenris is arrogant, there is no sign of it. But there is much in the way of quiet insecurity. Others may not see it- but Solas did every time Fenris had tried to get him to speak to Jayla or confronted him on his stupidity.

The boy likely thinks himself unworthy of her. Solas does not disagree, though he does not believe himself worthy either any longer. When he pulls up beside his heart, he stays quiet. There is so much to say, no time to say it and no words to put thoughts together. He is trying, however, but, Jayla, ever perceptive to emotion beats him to the punch.

“Solas, what is it.” Her words are not entirely unkind in tone, but she isn’t letting him in either.

“I – have been something of a fool lately.” He has to practically spit the words out, but they come, and he waits for her reprisal.

“I won’t argue on that front.” Those lovely dark eyes remove themselves from the road to settle on him. “Finally feeling guilty enough to come and apologize for being an insufferable asshole?”

Now he flinches, ears flattening against his head once more. His heart is not easily won over or bamboozled. She doesn’t forgive easily either. Not this. That much is clear. However, he doesn’t need (or so he tells himself) her forgiveness. Just acknowledgement.

“There is guilt, yes, I would be lying if I said otherwise. But I am not here to assuage my conscience. I am here to say that I did wrong by you. I hurt you unnecessarily, and for that, I am sorry I caused you pain. If I am truly honest with myself, I was selfish in pursuing you, in allowing us to dance the way we did around one another. I should have been a better friend to you, and not listened to my baser desires.”

“You speak like you seduced me, drew me away from my good sense and stole my virginity, Solas.” Her lips pull into that smile that is his. It warms him, it eases Action’s near constant state of distress and anger. “As I recall, we walked together toward our path, attacked one another in our passion.” Heat rises to his Herald’s cheeks and Solas is irrevocably in love with her. He always will be, he has been a fool. She’s everything, she changes, everything.

“My Lady, it was a path I would take again and again if the fates favored us so.” He speaks in elven, lets it flow from his tongue because he cannot say such things to her anymore. And he cannot because he drove her away into the arms of a younger man. Part of him is furious with himself, and part accepts it. Accepts that while the half-blood children she no doubt will bear won’t be his – at least his People will have a part of her within them. Any child of hers would be spared the flames of the Veil if he had to sacrifice the last of himself to see it done.

Jayla tilts her head at the lyrical words. Solas did not usually speak to her in exclusively elven. They called one another pet names, of course, in their own languages, but he hadn’t purposely spoken so she couldn’t understand him. It makes her worry, it makes her hope. It makes her feel ashamed.  Silently she slows her horse, and waits for Fenris to come upon her right.

“My lady,” his voice washes over her and Jayla relaxes marginally. She loves Solas, will likely love him until the end of her days – but Fenris has her now. He is good for her. He is stable, he will not leave her side when their quest is over.

“My Spirit touched Knight,” her tone is soft and teasing. It hurts Solas to hear her call Fenris hers, but he accepts that pain. He must. After all, he brought this upon himself.

The Crossroads is quietly flourishing, repairing itself in the time Jayla has been away. They still lack a proper apothecary, but the elder mage that had been camped on the outskirts of town is lending her hand and magic whenever it’s needed. No one has work for them, either. It’s a little disappointing if the truth is told but Jayla is also ecstatic. This is what all the hardship, the pain of her first months in Thedas, has wrought. She sleeps easier than she has since Rivain that night.

The next morning, they are on the King’s road within two hours and just half an hour after that they are coming over the hill to the gate she’d seen in her dream. However, this gate is blocked, not only by the gate itself but a rather large and oddly moving rift. All rifts have a crystalline sound to them, a faint chime, she’s always heard it but this one, it’s odd.  

“I want a tight watch on that thing,” a guard yells, “sound the alarm if there is any sign of demons.”  The clunk of boots comes toward them, the guard passing them likely on the way to the crossroads. It all seems fine, but then.

The guards are yelling that it’s active and to shut the gate, scattering to the wind. Jayla urges her Forder faster, and dismounts rather expertly, surprising herself and then men behind her as she dives into the materializing fray. It’s the very first time Fenris see’s Jayla blink out of existence.

“Fasta vas!” He swears flinging himself off his mount, the other men doing much the same. They wade into the strangely green lit area and shout in surprise when Jayla sails past them. She lands on her back, groaning, but is quick to right herself, fire in her eyes.

She stands but it’s sluggish, while when Fenris’ swings his great sword, it is faster than he’s ever moved in his life. The world feels sick around him, his lyrium flaring of its own accord and making him grit his teeth. The pain is fantastic, but he grasps it and uses it as focus, shifting half into the fade and staying have in the waking world to attack the nearest terror demon.

Jayla and Solas are almost stunned into stillness. They’ve never seen Fenris fight, but this – it’s far from what either had expected. Jayla finds it beautiful, and Solas finds it mildly horrifying. For that ability to manifest – the boy had magic, likely the same as what the Templar possess, but magic all the same. The talent that’s been rendered inert, fueled by pain and rage, pulling the boy two different directions. It’s a miracle he’s lived to this age, however old he may be.

Shifting, Jayla finds herself moving as if in a deep pool of mud. It’s a distressing feeling, and she calls her magic, flinging herself out of the magical bog with her storm magic, aiming carefully but moving swiftly toward the wraiths taking pot shots at Varric and distracting him from the Terrors. It would have been a good plan, except the magic is not solely slowing things down, and Jayla finds herself once again on the ground, yelping as her magic fizzles and pops in the air around her only one wraith sent back to the beyond.

The battle is wearing and hard on them all. Varric’s coat is singed with spirit fire, Solas has a set of claw marks through his outer coat, Jayla favors her left side, and Fenris looks peaked, bronze tones greyed out. When she snaps the rift shut, the oppressive nature of it leaves, and Jayla all but collapses. If not for Solas, she would have hit the ground. As it is, his body bears most of her weight as she draws in deep labored breaths.

“What – What the fuck was that?” She gasps out, wincing as familiar hands trail over her to find what’s been injured. “That felt wrong, too fast, too slow, heavy, and the sound of it was all wrong.”

“It was not a normal rift, that much is certain. Stay still, v- da’len.” Solas speaks carefully, tripping over the desire to call Jayla vhenan still. “It felt as if time itself was being manipulated, tugged and twisted.”

His hands glow as he finds her bruised bones and he must steel himself to not react when she lets out a sigh that he’s heard in different situations. That his magic still affects her so – but, she is no longer his. He made a serious mistake, but his road is laid. He lets her go the moment she’s healed, and she moves away from him seemingly without reluctance. It drives the dagger in his heart in a little more. He did this. He did this.

“Fenris, you next, let me check you over. You’re terribly pale.” He beckons the younger man in, their bad blood set aside in the face of his health. Solas may be selfish, he may have once been capricious, he had and is certainly hotheaded, but to leave an ally, someone close to the one he loves in pain, is monstrous. He is many thing, but he will never be a monster.

The younger man hesitates, eyes wary before a soft plea from Jayla sends him toward the eldest mage. Jayla goes for Varric, carefully checking him over, scolding him quietly for being too slow. The laughter lets both elves know the teasing was not poorly received.

“I need to use my magic to see if you were injured, do I have permission to do so?” He’s read the tale of the Champion, and knows better than to use magic on Fenris without warning the youth first. Solas can tell it shocks the whit haired man, those emerald eyes of his widen before he swallows and nods.

“Do what you will, mage.” The customary gruffness of his words is tempered somehow. Perhaps their arguments, and dressing down by Varric have done a bit to soften them both. Solas does not push his magic at the boy, but lets it wash over him, he uses at little power as he can, eyes watching for any sign of pain, while also looking for injury.

This is the second mage to touch him with magic that has not caused him some measure of agony. Solas’ magic is cool, almost the same feeling as when he chews on mint tabs to freshen his breath and sucks in air after having finished. It’s strangely pleasant, and Fenris relaxes marginally while the magic washes over him. Even as the markings flair gently, there’s no pain. He wonders what makes Jayla and Solas so different to any of other mages he has been healed by or worked with. How is it their magic doesn’t cause him to feel as if being torn to pieces?

“Some strained muscles, and a bit of poison from the terror but you are otherwise safe and healthy. I’ll be forcing the poison out, and fixing that strain.” Solas speaks as he directs his magic into the other man, a little bewildered that Fenris isn’t reacting poorly to him. The way Varric had described the young man’s reactions would lead one to believe that all magic pained him.

“As you will,” again Solas is shocked. There is no malice in Fenris’ voice, there is no anger in his tone. He’s more shocked to know just how often Fenris must feel anger for his words to be as gruff as they usually are.

The flow of magic into him is a strange feeling. Verging on pleasurable, that mint cool feeling flowing into him, filling him. He tamps down the reaction to it, disturbed, but intrigued at the same time. If Jayla were to heal him, would it feel like this? Is she even particularly adept at healing magic?

“There,” the flow of magic stills and Fenris opens his eyes, blinking slowly, confused, as he can’t remember having closed them. He meets storm blue and his ears flush pink. Solas is an ass, but he is a _pretty_ ass.

“My thanks, Solas.” Fenris removes himself from the orbit of the other male and heads for Jayla. She is watching them curiously, and reaches a hand to rest on his forearm when he nears.

“Are you, all right?” her words are gentle, concern real and visible in her eyes. Fenris feels his stomach twist, but he nods, and leans in, ghosting his lips over hears. “I am fine, Amatus, the healer is good at the work he does.”

They turn as a unit when the gates creak and whine, soldiers murmuring praise to the maker that the rift is cleared. Jayla heads forward, eager to get this meeting with the Grand Enchanter over with. They are barely in the gate, however, when one of the Inquisition scouts appears. He makes the customary gesture, of his fist over his heart and Jayla mimics it.

“My lady, we spread the word the Inquisition was coming, but you should know no one here was expecting us.” Jayla sucks in a sharp breath, her eyes narrowing.

“No one?” She moves so her arms cross over her middle, leaning to one side. “Not even Grand Enchanter Fiona?” That didn’t seem right. Fiona was the one who approached them.

“If she was, she hasn’t told anyone.” The scout looks just a touch concerned, as if he’s not telling her everything. “We’ve arranged use of the tavern for the negotiations – “

“Agents of the Inquisition!” A melodic voice interrupts them, and Jayla turns sharply. A young elven mage approaches, his clothing is clean, if tattered, clearly one of those who had fought for his freedom. “My apologies,” he seems, rushed, worried, more so than he should be. “Magister Alexius is in charge now, but hasn’t yet arrived. He’s expected shortly, but, you can speak with the former Grand Enchanter in the meantime.” As soon as the mage appears, he is walking off again, looking a little more comfortable than he had when speaking.

“What – a Magister?” She breathes out, confused. Fenris behind her growls, it makes her jump, he’s not made that sound around her before, at least not like that. It’s anger and hurt.

“A Magister? Here? The mages are lost to us then, Herald, we should leave.”  That makes the young woman eye the scout, who scurries away, before pressing Fenris to walk back outside of the gate, her hand catching Solas, and her foot gently tapping Varric on the way.

“What do you mean, the mages are lost to us?” Her voice is low as she asks, umber eyes flashing. Fenris would like nothing more than to avoid this topic all together, but, he will not quail. He has freed slaves by the dozen, infiltrated magisters homes to do so.

“If the Magister is in charge, then that means they are indentured or outright sold themselves into slavery to him. In the name of _freedom_.” He bites into the words, spitting them out as if they burn is mouth. They very well might. “It is the way of things within the Imperium. A man has choices when life becomes harsh enough he cannot make ends meet the conventional way. He may indenture himself to a store or organization for an agreed upon number years, and in turn, the organization or store that takes the contract pays the debts he’s incurred. If the debts are too great, he may become a slave. Again, the debts are paid, but freedom is now a different subject entirely.”

Jayla feels her breath rush from her, horror on her face and slithering through her blood. “They- they wouldn’t. Would they? Things aren’t so desperate as that, surely.” Her eyes slide to Solas, but he gives her nothing, only shows he too is upset by this idea. “Let’s go, we’re getting to the bottom of this, _now_.”

Making an about face, Jayla heads down the road toward the town, her companions only steps behind her. The road is like any other, sprinkled with sacks left at the road side in a hurry, elfroot and other useful herbs growing unchecked. It speaks to Jayla’s learned rogue behavior that she pauses every so often to look through one of the lumpier bags. She also doesn’t hesitate to strip the oldest leaves from the herbs, leaving the younger ones so the plant won’t die.

She wordlessly passes her findings off between Fenris and Varric, while Solas is given bundle upon bundle of herbs to carry. They are falling into old routines, the three that have been working together for the last half a year, and Fenris is simply absorbed into it. She has a bit of awe about her when she lays eyes on the broken windmill. It’s the first she’s ever seen in person. Even though it’s just bones now, Jay can tell it was once magnificent.

Part of her wants to go explore it, but she squishes that part of herself for the moment. There are other things to attend to, more important things. She is so focused on her task, she doesn’t stop to explore Redcliffe at all. She notes the important bits, where the market is, the hill that leads to the chantry, the docks, as she makes for the Gull and Lantern. There are, she notes, a rather large number of chantry individuals and mages about, the conversations are loud, but she doesn’t pay attention at this moment. She needs get this negotiation over with, then she can look for clues and investigate these whispered, urgent conversations.

The tavern is full to bursting with people, but it isn’t hard to find the ‘former’ Grand Enchanter. Jayla heads for her, head held high even as the whispers break out. She’d decided to not wear armor into the town and it is a blessing that she wasn’t injured in the skirmish at the gate past bruises. No, she’d decided on presenting herself as her adopted culture, and wears clothing that sets her apart. The tunic dress is long, but the slits in the sides end at the top of the curve of her hips. She wears no under tunic, and lets her arms be seen the vest like top facilitating it. Her tattoos are on show, her ears have the golden studs in them, as well as the visible body piercings. The Herald is pleased to see her appearance makes others take pause, though Fiona betrays nothing but worry.

“Welcome, agents of the Inquisition.” Her greeting is cordial enough, but the next words out of her mouth make Jayla pause. “What has brought you to Redcliffe?”

“Grand Enchanter,” Jayla’s head tilts, her dreads swing, silver catching the light. “We’re here because you invited us back in Val Royeaux some weeks ago.”

“You must be mistaken,” the elven woman’s head tilts, confusion in her eyes. Genuine confusion by Jayla’s assessment. “I haven’t been to Val Royeaux since before the conclave.”

What the shivering tiddly winks? Jayla shifts her weight onto her left foot, hip jutting out, hand on her hip. “Well,” she draws the word out looking for more delicate words, “that’s weird, because a woman who looks and speaks exactly like you invited us here.”

“ _Exactly_ like me?” Now the elder woman looks mildly alarmed. “I suppose there could be magic at work, by why would anyone -?” Jayla resists the urge to cut in as Fiona cuts herself off. “No, whoever, or whatever brought you here, the situation has changed. The free mages have already, pledged, themselves to the service of the Tevinter Imperium.”

Her stomach swoops a bit, the way the Enchanter says pledged. She hears Fenris’ armor creak and her hand shoots out, presses against his stomach. “You idiot woman, how could you enslave your people?!”

“Fen!”

“I understand you are afraid,” Solas’ plea has a different tenor to it. One Jayla can’t place. Varric is murmuring behind her, it sounds vaguely like swearing.

It’s clear Fiona is uncomfortable, and she hastens to finish their conversation. It strikes the Herald as strange, the whole situation. But she listens, all the same, to what Fiona has to say.

“As one indentured to a Magister, I no longer have the authority to negotiate with you.”

“Lady Enchanter,” Jayla starts and pauses, looking again, for the right words. Because she’d love to swear a blue streak and tell the woman she’s crazy for trusting a place that still practices slavery. However, that would alienate those present. She can’t afford to do that.  “This is very strange, you must admit. It’s been perhaps two months since Val Royeaux, and now you are an indentured servant. Your freedom, that you worked and fought so hard to gain, given away. But, as you have relinquished your right to decide your fate, I must ask who it is I must negotiate with for your help in sealing the Breach.”

It’s as if Jayla summoned the man. The tavern door opens silently but closes with an audible ang. The Tevinter style of armor is… fascinating. It reminds her a bit of a dragon’s build. Just a touch. But the man’s face, he puts her on edge, too smarmy, too utterly punch-able.

“Welcome my friends! I apologize for not meeting you earlier.” Jayla watches with care as Alexius makes his way into the tavern proper. He walks with confidence, almost a swagger. His attendant, a young man in yellow, looks ill, with bruised eyes and sallow skin.

“Agents of the Inquisition, allow me to introduce to you Magister Gereon Alexius.”

“The southern mages are under my command now,” he says it so matter of fact that it irritates Jayla. This whole situation irritates her. The mages fought a war to be free, but at the first sign of trouble they throw themselves in with a slave keeping Tevinter? “And you,” he breathes the words eyes intense on the former dancer, intense enough all her companions bristle. “You are the survivor, yes? The one from the Fade? Interesting.”

Uh. No. No it’s not interesting. It’s not _that_ interesting. This guy is giving Jay a major case of the heebie jeebies and she’s more than happy to get the hell out of dodge as fast as possible right now. “Sure.” She speaks at length, and takes the opportunity to ask a few burning questions. “Tell me more about this arrangement of yours with the free mages.”

“Certainly, what specifically do you wish to know?”

“So, lay this out for me, when exactly did you two negotiate this… alliance?”

“When the conclave was destroyed, these poor souls faced the brutality of the templars, who rushed to attack them.” He looks at Fiona, and again, Jayla is bothered. It seems to bother Fenris as well, he presses against her hand, and she presses firmly back. They need to play nice to get what they want. Nothing about this seems right, but she won’t start a battle with a bunch of tired, hungry mages crowded around her. “It could only be through divine providence that I arrived when I did.”

No fucking shit. Jay’s eyebrows are high on her forehead, and her neck cranes to watch Fiona’s reaction to this statement. She isn’t disappointed either.

“It, it was certainly very timely.” The elder woman’s face scrunches as she beings to think about the timeline of all this. Of course, Thedas is on the watch as the south falls into a chaotic war, but for a Magister to be this far south, just because? Jayla hasn’t been here long, but that stinks.

“And where is the Arl? I’ve heard he didn’t leave even when the Blight was ravaging Ferelden.”

“Tensions were rising, I didn’t want an incident.” A smooth answer, the wrong answer too.

Jayla tenses, the Magister ousted an Arl from his land, from his home? To keep tensions to a minimum? That should be reversed. If anything, the Magister should be staying here, in the Inn with the Rest rather than the Castle proper, which she can only assume is his base, as he took his time to get here.

“All right, fine. Since you’re leading the mages, let’s talk. I’m sure we’ll find some common ground on which to establish an arrangement.”

Solas’ aura fluctuates, and Jayla grits her teeth, grabbing his hand. These two idiot men were going to get them all killed if they couldn’t keep their tempers in check. She doesn’t like this either. She’d rather this situation be anything than what it is. But, it’s not, so she’ll work with what they’ve been given.

“It is always a pleasure to meet a reasonable woman,” Alexius smirks, and waves for the small Herald to follow him. He had noticed the way she held back the elven men in her company. And without a word spoken between them, a very fascinating dynamic.

With a look at Fiona, Jayla turns making for the table Gereon chooses to sit at. The wood creaks and her dress rustles quietly, hair ornaments clinking gently as she situates herself. The Herald is a beautiful woman, even with the unfortunate scar on her nose and at her jaw. Exotic, darker than any northerner he’s ever laid eyes on, and her accent is just a touch off for Llomerryn. He’d been informed by the watches where she was headed, and why. A fascinating pit stop to make in such dire times. He can’t say the effect, however, is displeasing.

“Felix, would you send for a scribe please?” He checks over his son as he speaks, noting his color and lucidity. It’s a reflex, and one that Jayla can’t help but see.

So, he’s got a little light in him, she’s not sure that makes up for the creepy vibes she’s still feeling. She leans an elbow on the table, leaning forward in her seat as the boy approaches. “Pardon my manners, my son, Felix.”

The introduction is short, and Alexius launches right into it. “I’m not surprised you’re here. Containing the Breach is a feat that not many could even attempt.”

Warning bells ring in Jayla’s ears. Mages have been looking at the green dooms day portal, but none as closely as Solas or the Inquisition mages. So how is it that this Magister knows so much about it? But he continues, and Jayla listens.

“There’s no telling how many mages would be needed for such an endeavor, ambitious indeed.”

She smiles, that sultry smile she uses whenever she wants to set people off kilter, when she wants them to trip on themselves. “We don’t think small in the Inquisition, and to close a great gaping hole into the Fade – well, we need all the magical help we can get.”

He leans forward, shifting a bit, and she smiles wider. “There would have to be – Felix?” He’d looked to the side for a moment, and alarm slams into him. Jayla follows his eyes and is out of her chair in an instant, walking toward him. She’s already glowing with healing magic as he takes three steps forward and collapses against her. She catches him, while telling the other three to stand down

They had all stood, ready to attack when Felix collapsed. Jayla feels a slip of paper shoved into right hand slit of her dress, the paper sticking to her leg and she blinks, helping the man get upright again. A soft cry from his father makes her heart beat painfully hard. If nothing else, Alexius at least, is an attentive parent.

“Forgive me, my lady, for my clumsiness.” It’s the first time the young man speaks, as he straights himself up, and Alexius is there.

“Are you, all right?”

“I’m fine, father.”

“Come, let me get your powders.” He’s moving as he speaks, and looks back at Jayla as an afterthought. “Excuse me, friends, we must continue this another time. Fiona, I require your assistance back at the castle.”

“I – I don’t mean to trouble everyone.” Felix at least, sounds genuine where his father is frantic. “I will send word to the Inquisition, we will conclude this business at a later date.” The party leaves the Tavern without any further delay, leaving Jayla and her party watching after them. She waits until the room has cleared of Alexius’ people before pulling the paper off of her skin.

As Varric, Solas, and Fenris crowd around her she reads the message aloud. “Come to the chantry, you are in danger.”

“Well, Shit.” Varric sums things up rather nicely.

Things have become immensely more complicated than Jayla needs or wants them to be. This has gone from a simple negotiation to an intrigue with a possible assassination attempt being enacted. But, she can’t leave the Mages in the hands of a slave owner. She will not condemn them to such a fate.

At the same time, this leaves her waiting for Alexius to deign to contact the Inquisition. She now has to wait for another invitation and that means she can’t be cavorting about the countryside looking for clues that will point her to the missing children. Her hand closes into a fist and he paper crumples as she closes her eyes, willing herself to calm down.

Solas steps to her left, and his aura carefully entwines with hers. He likely has already had this mental math session himself. The Magister and Mages have her over a barrel. No that they are aware of that fact.

Fenris is at her right and Varric slightly in front of him. Her eyes seek out his when she hears him take a deep breath. “Amatus, this is suspicious, it is likely a trap laid for you by the Magister. We should not consider going to the Chantry not accepting the invitation when it inevitably finds its way to Haven.”

Varric watches the trio keenly, while trying to figure out a way this doesn’t end up with dead children and Jayla razing Thedas to the ground. He knows her, she won’t leave the mages like this, and she won’t ignore something that will likely help her in the long run. That’s not who Princess is. She’d be far safer if she was just a touch less headstrong and a touch less reckless.

“It is very suspicious,” she murmurs, looking at Fenris with sharp eyes. “But I can’t leave an army of Mages in the hands of a Magister that somehow came here exactly when he was needed most, when the mages were at their most vulnerable and desperate. Doesn’t that seem odd to you? That he – a mage of the north – knew so much about the Breach, about the power needed to close it? Most Mages won’t even hazard a guess at how much mana we need to help me close it, he asserted many and that it would be quite a feat in a manner that suggested he’d been studying it. How can he study it from Tevinter, or for that matter, _here_? He ousted the Arl from his lands and home, under guise of lessening tensions.”

Her eye slide from Fenris to look around the room for eager ears. She can’t be sure who works for Alexius. Her voice is kept so only those in her immediate vicinity may hear her. “It reeks of foul play. He’s too willing to help, too interested in me. Not to mention Tevinter isn’t anyone’s friend last, I heard. Leaving him here, in power, is asking for a war to break out between Ferelden and Tevinter. That is the absolute last thing anyone needs.”

Sighing, Jayla rakes a hand through her locks, looking down at the dirty floorboards before looking toward the door. “There’s only one way to handle this. Come on, we all need some air.”

Starting for the door, the herald and her party stop dead when a mage in his early thirties cuts them off. Jayla stiffens, his eyes are without sparkle, without life. It’s eerie, and that feeling is only compounded when he addresses them. “You are agents of the Inquisition, yes? I wish to join.” 

“We are agents of the Inquisition, “ Jay confirms this carefully, still feeling an odd way about this man. He speaks without prompting, in a monotone manner.

“As I said, I wish to join. The Magister does not enjoy the presence of those like myself, I feel it would be best for me to relocate.”

“Yes, yes of course.” She stammers, and her hand shoots out for Solas’. It clicks in a moment – this is a tranquil Mage. This man has no dreams, no emotions, no real autonomy. “If you go to the crossroads, ask for Scout Harding, and she will see you safely to haven. Bring all of those who feel the same with you, we always need talented people within our ranks.”

“Ah, I thank you, Inquisition. I do not think more than ten will accompany me, I am not sure there are more than ten of us still within the village. We once numbered in the hundreds, but that has dwindled as time passed, I am not sure where they went. No matter, I will do as you say.” She’s so startled by that overload of information that she doesn’t move to stop him as he turns to head out of the Tavern. Her hand grips Solas’ tightly, and Fenris notices. It sparks irritation in him, and worry. How quickly those two fall into old habits once the anger has left.

“He – He was,”

“A tranquil,” Solas supplies the information flatly, his ears pinned against his head. “A man cut off from everything that made him unique, that made him human, that made him, _him.”_

“That’s barbaric,” she feels like crying. How can you experience the world without emotional connection and reaction? How can you live life to the very fullest when you cannot see or won’t see the potential, when you have no dreams?

“It is, unfortunately, the way of things here, Amatus.”  Fenris squints his eyes a bit. Jayla seems so shocked by the nature of Tranquility. Surely, she has seen Tranquil mages before? Perhaps her memory has blocked such things from her.

“It’s wrong. He looked and felt like, like…” She can’t properly articulate the concept.

“He felt like a walking corpse.” Again Solas’ tone is flat, and Jayla flinches away from him, dropping his hand in the process. He isn’t wrong. That is the feeling she got from the Tranquil, but still, to say it so matter of fact and press that thought out into the world is, is. Jayla certainly could not do it.

“Something is wrong here, very wrong. We’re not leaving. We’re canvasing the town, looking for information on Alexius, the Children, and the situation with the Tranquil, when dusk comes, we’ll see just how in danger I really am.” Her voice is threaded with Silverite and she pulls out her map of the town from Fenris’ pack. Map after map after map has been given to her, of Val Royeaux, the Hinterlands, Haven, Redcliffe Village, the entire map of Thedas. It’s a wonder that she hasn’t lost any.

“Varric, Solas, take the upper half of the town. Fenris and I will scout around here in the market and docks, find out whatever we can through gossip and sneaking.” Again, her voice pitches low, and the map is replaced. She starts for the door, Fenris behind her, resisting the urge to smile.

Jayla may still reach for Solas for comfort, but it’s him she trusts to watch her back. “We meet at the bottom of the hill leading to the chantry at dusk. May the odds be ever in our favor and may we find some shred of hope in this bullshit situation.”

Shaking her head, disturbed and upset by the Tranquil’s statements, Jayla waves for Fenris to come with her and head for the door. The younger man finds himself relaxing now that she’s opted to take him rather than Solas with her for this small mission. He is well aware that being jealous of Solas will not help this relationship an ounce, but he can’t help to feel threatened. Solas is handsome, older, highly intelligent, while Fenris feels all thumbs in comparison. Still, he keeps his insecurity to himself, at least for now, until he has a better idea of where he stands in concern to Jayla.

The day moves faster than Jayla anticipated and faster than she’d like. She had met Connor, the rightful heir to Redcliffe, and heard his story. She felt for him, if she had the power to keep her parent alive, she might have ended up just like him if such a situation cropped up. Thankfully on earth she didn’t, and her parents hadn’t become ill. She had quietly ushered him off to Harding as well, his companion following closely behind.

Trunks and sacks are looted, an elderly Elven man gives her purpose – to go place flowers on his fallen wife’s grave. She will at her earliest convenience. There is a shack with a strong and suspicious lock that she needs Varric for. The place reeks of magic and she has to get inside. She has to know what it is going on in there. Part of her worries there is a rogue mage among the free, and part of her worries the Tevinter mages are up to something.

She learns of the Hero of Ferelden from the monument to her, and it sends shivers through her. The Warden had walked into death and not looked back. It’s an upsetting thought, but Jayla knows if it’s her life for Thedas’, well it’s hardly a choice, now is it? Fenris, seemingly knowing what she is thinking, takes her hand in his. His gauntlet makes it slightly awkward, but the gesture comforts her.

“This age has been led by women,” he muses quietly, looking up at the Griffon monument. “Women pulled every which way, women who are forced to become more than they ever thought they might. From what the stories say, the Warden was not much older than you, perhaps the same age.”

“You’re saying she was in her early twenties when she fought the blight?”

“Some say she was newly twenty, some say she may not have been older than eighteen.”

“Oh.” Now Jayla truly worries, a woman so young, made that decision. Her family taken from her, a destiny placed on her shoulders, older, more capable people allowing her to lead. There are too many similarities for her comfort. “She must have been very brave, and truly committed to the survival of this world.”

“Indeed.” The gentle agreement has her hand squeezing his. No doubt Fenris sees the parallels as well. She wonders, worries, he regrets their moment three mornings past. It makes her drop his hand with a wan smile, and head for the bottom of the hill that leads to the chantry, leaving him watching after her.

Fenris lingers behind Jayla, watching with keen eyes where she goes and who is watching her go. There are a handful eyes that do not watch her with admiration or curiosity, they are speculative, cold. Those are Alexius’ men without a single doubt in his mind. They watch her like an experiment, or an asset rather than a person. His armor creaks as he begins to follow her.

Inevitably, his eyes always come back to the Rivaini woman. She’s got secrets, he is rapidly becoming aware of that. Secrets that Solas and Varric are privy to, but those that she has yet to make him aware of. Fenris both understands and is hurt by that. That she doesn’t yet trust him enough to tell him what it is that sets her apart from many here in Thedas. He has his suspicions, however, a woman with a grandmother who had been enslaved, who holds a closer relationship to the elves and dwarva than humans. Her shock at the sight of a Tranquil mage. None of that adds up to something that makes sense. Not only that, her dancing had been slightly different than the rest of her village’s.

Many little clues and nothing to connect them to one another. He wagers she has elf blood in her, that her visceral reactions to the treatment of elves and mages is a result of her own heritage. He knows there were slaves in her family and that now, somehow, they are free. He has seen that her magic manifests in new and terrifying ways. Yet she does not rely on that magic unless circumstances are working against her in such a way she finds it imperative to give herself an advantage.

A little enigma, the dark woman with dark hair and darker eyes. The woman who has wormed her way into his affection quickly and deftly, without even trying. One of two mages who can touch him without making him feel only pain.

Perhaps _that_ is another reason Fenris is not fond of Solas. Jayla’s magic is pleasant against his skin, her aura soothing, warm and soft. Solas’ is cool and minty, and just as pleasant as his lover’s. It’s odd, for two people in such close quarters to suddenly able to not cause him pain. After a life of magic being the bane of his existence, theirs is not. Yet any other mage makes his skin crawl. Why are they the exceptions. Further, why is Solas an exception? His magic is not the same as Jayla’s, focused on ice and veil manipulation as far as he can tell and has witnessed, where hers is all element based.

Nothing about his reaction to either mage makes sense. Though, he isn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth when it comes to Jayla. Being with her without pain is a blessing. One he hadn’t thought to be given a chance to experience. His eyes slide around her, taking in the way people’s eyes are drawn to her. Again, he’s looking for signs of spies. He notices, however, that others look at her the same way they had Hawke. Hawke had drawn the eye with her vibrant red hair and blue eyes, so different from her sibling’s.  

Walking sedately, Fenris keeps the distance between them just enough that jump into action if he needs to. He watches her, from time to time, takes in the swing of her hips, the confident way she holds herself. He is hopelessly attracted to this woman. She stations herself by one of the half-reconstructed archways, and he settles beside her, a slight space between them, but not so much their hands aren’t touching. He was content with that. With touching her but not touching her. The Herald apparently is not, and grasps his hand. He can’t help but be start when she does so, and tense when she doesn’t draw her hand away. She shouldn’t be holding his hand so brazenly in public. Though, he has seen her bestow affection on Solas in clear view of a mostly human crew, and an entirely human village. She’d shown him affection during that trip as well. The white-haired warrior settles against their stone, and that’s how the others find them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter is long and covers quite a bit. SOLAS IS FINALLY COOPERATING WITH ME?!?!?!  
> Praise the freakin' creators man, I was starting to get worried. It's not a reconciliation, but it's a start toward less drama. 
> 
> As always, this bad boy has no beta. And thus is mistake ridden. Someday I will go back and edit this. Someday.


	46. Chantry Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bum bum BUUUM

Jayla watches the way Solas’ ears shift to lay flat in irritation when he comes upon her and Fenris. Varric’s eyes seemingly zoom in on their hands, and to be frank – she really doesn’t give a damn. Let them be mad. She needs a little happiness to combat the duty and pain and worry that has become her life. Pushing away from the archway, and tugging Fenris up behind her, she addresses the other half of her party.

“Did you find anything?”

“There’s a guy who lost his ram, very special apparently, gives advice. Sounds suspicious but he’s giving away money for it, so I say we check around the town for the damn thing. There is a healer the crossroads could use, but she refuses to go. I can’t blame her, elves still aren’t treated well, no matter how useful their trade is to the humans.” Varric shifts his shoulders, moving Bianca’s weight to be more comfortable for him.

“There are two buildings that are locked, but no sounds were detected from within or magical signatures. There is a spirit in the lake by the home we found Warden Blackwall. It, apparently, will give a reward to those who bring it blood lotus flowers. The bridge to the Castle has been destroyed, villagers who have stayed amongst the Mages say it was rebuilt directly after the blight, but it has since been destroyed. Some think the Mages did it to keep the Arl’s men at bay, some think that the Tevinter mages did it to keep an invasion of the castle from happening.” Solas speaks smoothly, feeling more and more tired as the day wears on.

“We asked if anyone had seen elven children being escorted into town, and no one had any information to give us. It would seem they are not in Redcliffe village, da’len.”

Her head shakes, it feels heavy, or too light, she can’t properly decide which at this moment. “No one has seen _any_ children in town. There are quite a few teens, but no children under ten or twelve. It doesn’t make sense, I can’t imagine the mages leaving behind their most vulnerable. There wasn’t a single tranquil to be found in the lower half of town either. It’s suspect, I doubt the other gentleman worked that quickly to round his fellows up.” Her free hand taps a finger to her lips.

“There is a locked cabin by the docks, it reeks of magic, but I can’t work the lock. I went through three pins before giving up. Varric, I’d like you to give it a try later, if not I’m breaking the damn door. There’s too much in this town that feels wrong.”

“You got it, Princess.”

Fenris clears his throat, shifting so he is almost pressed against Jayla’s right half of her back. It’s a comforting gesture, she’s been irritated all afternoon, and he understands she’s worried, fearful. He doesn’t begrudge her, her emotions.

“There is an elder who we’ve agreed to clean eh grave of his wife for and place flowers upon it. The merchants are shifty, but none of them had information to provide on the children. A mage named Connor let us know the history of the Castle, specifically his bloody history within it. He had at one point been possessed by a desire demon, fearing for his father’s life. The Warden saved him, and his Mother’s life by going to the circle to retrieve a compliment of magi to summon the demon into the open. The Tevinter agents made him uncomfortable, being in Redcliffe made him uncomfortable, Jayla told him to go Harding.  We’ve turned up nothing on the subject of the children.”

He is careful in his wording of their lack of information on the children. Jayla is fraying, quietly, but fraying all the same. She was – is – certain the children are here or passed through here on to parts unknown. Fenris won’t ask how she became so sure of hat, but he trusts her. Trusts her almost implicitly, and that will likely become dangerous the farther into this intrigue they dive.

“So, now that we’ve found nothing,” her annoyance Is clear, and her distress as well, “let’s go see if someone wants to try to kill me tonight.”

With a smile that says she’s less than confident, the dark island woman heads for the path to the Chantry. Her companions crowd around her, forming a semicircle as they walk, their eyes on everyone they pass. Jayla’s eyes are straight ahead, waiting for someone to come at her. She trusts her boys to keep her back safe. It feels like seconds before they’re in front of the chantry doors.

She looks up at them, the immense hunks of wood that keep her out of what is likely a trap. Taking a deep breath, she feels Fenris press against her, hears Varric take his own breath, and shivers as Solas’ aura curls around her. It feels like that moment right before a character in a movie opens the door on something terrible happening. Her knuckles rap against the wood, before the hand flattens out, her other swirling with storm magic, and she pushes open the doors.

The sight that greets her, is not what she’d anticipated. A greater shade is heading straight for her, and the storm magic crashes into it, as well as other magic, something that sizzles and pops when it hits hers. The Shade is done for, and Jayla sees a bronze man with frankly amazing hair looking right back ag her.

“Ah, you finally showed up. Now help me close this would you?” His head twitches, and she spots the rift. With a nod she darts forward, that glow Solas is used to flaring on her skin, hands wreathed in lightening as more twisted spirits pour from the open rift. Terrors and despair again. He darts in as well.

“Varric close the doors! No demon can get out of here.”

The song of blades, arrows and staves fill the room. The scent of ozone and tang of electricity hum along with them, as Jayla ducks and rolls around the room, taking down as many smaller demons as she can. It’s only when time begins to twist that she gives up avoiding the demons, and flings her hand at the rift itself. Again, the chime is wrong, the feel of it is like a festering wound and it turns her stomach. She pulls hard and the fabric of the veil, wrenching it together and slapping what in her mind amounts to stitch which over top of it. The ensuing gore of the rift closing make her turn and roll away, minimizing her contact with it, while it hits the others. The groans make her laugh as she stands, dusting off her dress a touch.

“Charming, as all things southern are,” the drawl, it reminds her vaguely of Alexius, but far more refined. When he has most of the gore off him, his eyes settle on Jayla. “May I just say; your mark is fascinating. How does that work, exactly?”

The question makes her pause, and he laughs, mouth opening to start speaking again. She holds up her hand to stop him. “The mark has a connection to the veil, I can pull the two pieces, if you will, of fabric back together, and then I just sort of slap some magical stitches on it, and voila, rip fixed.”

That seems to draw the bronze man up short, and it’s her turn to laugh. “Honestly, it’s my best guess. It’s how I use, it at least. “

“So you just wiggle your fingers, and boom! Rift closes.” He looks terribly amused by that. She can’t blame him, either, the mark is a strange topic. At least it is unless you’re Solas.

“Essentially. Now, how are you, exactly?”

“Ah, getting ahead of myself again, I see.” He sobers, and gives a half bow. “Dorian of house Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?” Fenris bristles and Jayla presses her hand against his abdomen.

“He’s Tevinter, one of the major houses. Don’t trust him, my lady.” The growled words make her sigh. Fenris has obviously come far from his days of running, but he will likely never trust anyone human from Tevinter.” Dorian’s face pulls together at that declaration, eyes settling on Fenris for a moment. His eyes skitter away seconds later, he looks unsettled. Which is a bit interesting to the black woman watching him.

‘Suspicious friends you have here.” He seems to be contemplating something when e seemingly decides ‘fuck it’ and provides information about himself to them. “The man you met earlier today, Magister Alexius, was once my mentor. So, my assistance should be valuable – as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Honestly, you’re the last thing I was expecting here. I was sure either Felix would be waiting, or an assassination attempt was about to go down.” Jayla remarks, shifting so Fenris is behind her, and pressing her back against his front. He’s so rigid he doesn’t move to embrace her, but at the same time, he hopefully won’t rip the man’s heart out before she figures out if he’s a friend or foe.

“Ah,” Dorian blinks and looks toward the door. “I’m sure he’s on his way. He was to give you the note, then meet us after ditching his father.”

“What illness does he have? Alexius couldn’t jump to Felix’s side fast enough when he pretended to be faint. Why bring your son here away from his healers? Why stay here at all after securing his… arrangement with the mages for that matter.”

“He’s had some lingering illness for months.” Dorian looks concerned, and Jayla wonders if they were friends or are friends still. “Felix is an only child, and Alexius is being a mother hen, most likely.”

Jayla nods, eyes sliding to the side where she can see Fenris’ pauldrons in her periphery. “And you, Ser Pavus, are you a Magister like Alexius?” 

The question is innocent enough but apparently not to Dorian, who scowls and shifts his weight. “All right. Let’s say this once. I am a mage from Tevinter, but not a member of the Magisterium. I know Southerners use the terms interchangeably, but that only makes you sound like barbarians.”

Jayla raises an unimpressed eyebrow in response. “I am Rivaini, not a Ferelden nor Orlesian, try not to lump us all together, would you? In fact, no one present is a Southerner as you likely think of us. Not all of us choose to figure out what you lot in Tevinter do to denote rank and file, keep that in mind. That said, what exactly do you get out of helping the Inquisition? I assume you are the one who wrote that note.”

He looks at her with a measure of respect for her biting response, and looks at those around her with interest. His eyes do not stay on any of them long, however.

“Yes, I am. Someone had to warn you, after all.” The Tevinter mage turns serious for a moment, settling eyes on Jayla’s as he speaks. “Look, you must know there’s danger. That should be obvious even without the note.”

“But, let’s start with Alexius claiming the allegiance of the mage rebels right out from under you. It was as if by magic, yes? Which is exactly right. To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself.”

Shit, damn, _fuck_.

“All that to get here before me? That sounds stupidly dangerous.”  

“Oh, it is and more.” Dorian’s eyes spark, the girl is intelligent. Wild and a bit untamed but sharp witted. She might actually be worth his time, and might actually be able to thwart Alexius’ plans. “The rift you closed here? You saw how it twisted time around itself, sped somethings up and slowed others down. Soon there will be more like it, and they’ll appear further and further away from Redcliffe. The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable, and it’s unraveling the world.”

“I’d say you’re asking me to take a lot of that on faith, but honestly, that’s not the wildest thing I’ve heard since coming to the Inquisition.” She fell from another world; time magic is small potatoes compared to that.

“Oh? Well, I know what I’m talking about at any rate. I helped develop this magic.”  Dorian seems, upset, distressed even. Jayla can understand that. She’s felt nothing but distress these past days. Adding time magic that unravels the world on top, and well, she’s just wondering what’s next at this point.   


“When I was still his apprentice,” Dorian continues, “it was pure theory. Alexius could never get it to work. What I don’t understand is why he’s doing it? Ripping time to shreds just to gain a few hundred lackeys?”

“That is suspect, but more – what’s allowing him the ability to make the magic work now. These are two important questions that need answers. They needed answers yesterday.”

Dorian goes to speak again, when Felix appears. He’s like a damn ghost, and Jayla tenses against Fenris. But neither of them move, though she does see and hear Solas and Varric shifting uneasily. Bianca is likely out, she knows if she had her daggers, they would be front and center.

“He didn’t do it for them.”

“Took you long enough. Is he getting suspicious?” Dorian acts as if it common place for someone to make such an entrance. Perhaps in Tevinter it is common place. Jayla would very much like to find out. It’s a damn shame it’s a den of slavery, or she’d make a point, after all of this is said and done, to go see the country.

“No,” Felix shakes his head as he speaks. “But I shouldn’t have played the illness card. I thought he’d be fussing over me all night as well as he had the day.” He snorts, looking amused and annoyed in equal parts before he speaks to Jayla and her company.

“My father’s joined a cult. Tevinter Supremacists. They call themselves “Venatori. And I can tell you one thing: whatever he’d done for them, he’s done it to get to you.”

“Why, exactly, would he rearrange time and indenture the mages of the rebellion just to get to me?” Pushing off of Fenris’ chest, Jayla addresses Felix directly, questions burning in her mind, hope and dread kindling.

“They’re obsessed with you, but I don’t know why. Perhaps because you survived the Temple of Sacred Ashes?”

“You _can_ close the rifts. Maybe there’s a connection? Or they see you as a threat?” Dorian’s interjection makes Jayla’s heart jump. A cult that wants to get to her. A cult that had rearranged time to get to her. Oh spirits.

“If the Venatori are behind those rifts, or the breach in the sky, they’re even worse than I thought.” The other human looks distressed, and very disappointed. This is all well and good, but Jayla can’t just take their word as is.

“Alexius is your father. Why are you working against him?”

“For the same reason Dorian works against him. I love my father, and I love my country. But this? Cults? Time magic? Kidnapping children? What he’s doing is madness. For his own sake you have to stop him.”  

“It would also be nice if he didn’t rip a hole in time. There’s already a hole in the sky.”

Dorian’s remark is dry, but Jayla’s heart and mind stopped when Felix mentioned kidnapping children. If all of this is to get to her, to get her away from the mission of closing the Breach – Action and Purpose had been right. The kids were on the King’s road, and that trail ended _here_.

“All this for me?” She sounds a touch hysterical, and Fenris presses nearer to her, while Solas takes her hand. She understands why he would – he likely has put together what she has – Alexius has at least a few of the missing children. “And here I didn’t get Alexius anything,” sarcasm is her mask right now, she cannot, will not go to pieces in this chantry.

“Send him a fruit basket,” Dorian deadpans, eyes keen on her face. “Everyone loves those. You know you’re his target. Expecting the trap is the first step in turning it to your advantage. I can’t stay in Redcliffe. Alexius doesn’t know I’m here, and I want to keep it that way for now. But whenever you’re ready to deal with him, I want to be there. I’ll be in touch.”  The stylish mage turns to make his exit, effectively ending this little meeting of theirs. He pauses only to caution Felix to not get killed. The rejoinder given makes ice creep up Jayla’s back.

It’s so strange, Jayla decides in a faraway manner, unable to make herself move from her spot in the chantry. All at once she is full of hope, dread, and anger. This cult, had taken her children, Alexius had taken her children, and for what? Because she was able to close the rifts? There _must_ be more to it, to all of this. She feels like she might go mad, or crumple never to stand up again. She doesn’t realize how badly she’s shaking until gauntlet covered hands press down on her shoulders.

“Amatus?” Fenris calls her back quietly, gently, as if dealing with a spooked horse. Jayla’s mind kicks into gear.

“We’re opening that damn locked building at the docks. I don’t trust it. Then we ride hard for Haven. I don’t care if the world blows up, we are taking the Mages from Alexius.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least we know where the little's are! I am so freaking excited for the next like half dozen chapters you guys have NO IDEA.


	47. We won't play by Their rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jayla won't take any chances

She should have left that fucking shack alone. Jayla can still see it, feel it. It makes her skin crawl and she wants to scream. However, doing so would cause a commotion. Haven didn’t see the building full of skulls and the book outlining how to make Tranquil mages useful. They were metal detectors for strange shards of rock. Something apparently dear enough that the Tevinter compliment of Venatori sent to Redcliffe had been erecting the skulls on pedestals throughout southern Thedas. How many of those abominable things had she seen in the Hinterlands? There are at least two on the Storm Coast. Where else had the dead been placed like a lantern.

She paces in front of the chantry waiting for Cullen to make it back. They had ridden hard, harder than before to get back to Haven. The mother could not, would not, dally. Those fucking monsters have her children, and they were murdering the defenseless. What Tranquil would fight off an attacker? They are the epitome of harmless, unable to feel fear or rage.

She hates this place. Gods alive she hates Thedas with a passion she didn’t know she had. They imprison children here, convince them that their birth talents are a sin, hunt them down if they dare attempt to leave their cages, and forbid them a normal life. Elves and the Dwarva are treated like inferior races, the Qunari are painted as barbaric thugs and Humans are _still_ somehow locked in the age-old war of my group is better than your group! It’s madness. It eats away at her. Humans will spit on elves as soon as look at them, rape them if they’re considered pretty, and they are all considered pretty. The act, while heinous – here - it’s not even considered a real crime. She’d bet her magic that no one is ever charged with murder over and elf or dwarf that dies at a human’s hands. She’d bet her magic that no raped mage or elf finds justice unless it is at their own hands.

Why, why is she working so damn hard to save this place? Why was she pulled from her own shitty world into an even shittier one? How is it – how is it that she is supposed to save this place? All Jayla wants to do is scream and cry out her anger. She wants to beat the world into submission, to have her word be taken seriously. To bring this place into a century where justice is important, and race doesn’t define if you find that justice or not.

There is so much wrong here. So much to fix, and not enough time to even properly begin to scratch away at the surface. So she paces, and she hopes, and she cries silently, praying that she can find a way to make it right. Her children, little Eldhru and Tara, Maël and Delphine, Varhnen and Corrado – they need real freedom, they need security, she cannot, will not, leave them to grow into a world where they can only be prostitutes or the lowest of artisans.

“Jayla,” Solas’ tenor makes her pause, but she doesn’t pause for long, turning on her heel and continuing with her pacing.

“Vhenan, please, you need to rest. You’ve been up since yesterday, Fenris has gone to get you some food, but you need to stop. Pacing will solve nothing.”

“Go away, Solas.” She can’t deal with this right now. He might mean well, but to rest, while her children are held in a castle with a madman? By cultists? No. No she can’t rest. She won’t rest. They need to find a way to storm that place and rip Alexius apart, free the mages and free her kids.

“No.” The word is soft, and resolute. “I am worried for them as well, Jayla. Fenris is worried, Varric is worried.  Not only for the children the Magister has in his clutches but about the implications of the time magic. We cannot rush this, we mustn’t. One wrong step and we can rip the world in half and lose the children in the process.”

“What if he kills them, Solas? To send a message? Those are my kids, I may not have carried them, but they are mine. They call me mother and trusted me to keep them safe. They trusted _us_ to keep them safe!” Her eyes are wild as she finally stops her pacing.

Solas is sure that Jayla has no idea the amount of heat she’s giving off right now. Much more, and she would set this area a flame. He can’t find it in himself to chide her for it either. Solas knows what she is feeling, and the more she speaks, the more he wonders if their bond hasn’t influenced her somehow. She speaks like a pack member speaks. A pack mother, and her ferocity is equal to Mythal’s when of her children was threatened.

She is glorious in her ire, but reckless as well. He knows she will tear this world apart if those children come to harm. Jayla has told him as much, and he can see it now in her eyes. That question – why do I work to save this heap of steaming rot? He knows the turmoil in her heart because it reflects his. He wonders if he shouldn’t simply move ahead with his plan, there are other ways to regain his strength, there are craftier ways to set his adopted family on the path to the beyond. Tearing down the veil now would fix several problems. The Venatori would likely burn and those that did not would be of little consequence. Corypheus for all his blight taint can be dealt with as well.

But he cannot, will not, make a hasty decision. Not again. Not like before. The veil was a stop gap measure. Something to give the People a chance to flourish without slave lords over them. What a failure that was.

Jayla, he cannot let her do the same as he has. He can’t watch her spiral into hysteria and rage that will only fuel terrible decisions. He won’t watch her kill herself to exact justice on a world that does not see the injustice it perpetuates.

“They are my children as well, Vhenan. I failed them, I readily admit that. I have searched the fade for them every night, I have listened to their cries and fear. I want them back whole, and unharmed. But they will not be returned to us unharmed. There will be trauma we must work to ease, and they will need to be shown they are safe. The little ones will regress because of this. Perhaps the older ones as well. We have to be prepared for that and much, much more.” He steps toward her, arms out in a placating manner.

“Vhenan, Alexius is using unstable magic in order to bring you to him. For what we still do not know. It is dangerous for you to do this, and you have to see that. You must acknowledge that any plan we enact will most heavily endanger you. Of the two of us, the children need you more. You are a guiding light for them and this world. You are goodness, kindness, and love. Everything we need more of. So please, please, we must not rush into this. You must rest, you must be clear headed, and at your strongest when we do this.” He is a breath away from her, blue eyes pinned by umber. She’s listening to him, and even if it is grudgingly, she is listening. It gives him a little bit of hope that he won’t lose her, that he won’t lose the children to the clutches of a reckless, ruthless man.

“O Hilo, I can’t stop seeing that god forsaken building. All those skulls. All those people. They could do that to our children. They could – they could rip away their souls and then rip away their lives. How are you not terrified? How are you not ready to call down the sky on them?” The watery tone of her voice has Solas acting before he thinks, wrapping her in his arms, hushing her hand petting over her hair to sooth her.

“I want to rip his spine from his back, Jayla, for daring this. I truly would like nothing more than to visit violence on that wretch. But, we cannot be reckless in this. You cannot be reckless. To free the mages, you have to work around the magic that will do you harm, and you have to consider each step toward the children. We all must be cautious, careful. The Tevinter boy was correct – knowing there is a trap makes us expect it. Now we work to be ready for it. You work to be ready for it.”

 

Fenris comes upon them in this state, with Solas wrapped around Jayla, and her hands clutching at his sides. It makes him stop before he forces himself on toward them. They are colleagues, comrades in arms, and they shared an intimacy long before he came onto the stage of Jayla’s life. They are a handsome pair, sun kissed and dark as night. He can readily admit that. A beautiful pairing, contrasting in a way that draws the eye in without fail.

Is he jealous? Perhaps. Solas has not backed off once. He is free with her, touching her, speaking with her familiarly. It won’t stop and Fenris isn’t sure he can stop the elder man from doing any of that. Jayla, well, Jayla is a woman who walks her own path. He had thought she chose his, but now he isn’t so sure.

“Amatus, bread and stew.” He speaks quietly, and doesn’t look at either of them for longer than a moment, enough time to make sure her hands have hold of the offering. It irritates him, that he doesn’t know where he stands with her. That Solas who hurt her so completely, is still somehow by her side. Fenris knows, that if this is allowed to continue, if he doesn’t somehow wrest Jayla from Solas’ clutches he will cause her pain again.  That is as clear as the stars on the clearest night.

“Thank you,” her murmured words bring his eyes to her, and he favors her with a half-smile. He will not withdraw, he will not admit defeat in this. She is everything he ever could hope to want. Smart, fierce, gentle, and devoted. Devoted to her cause, to her friends, to her family. Such a quality is rare, and Fenris values it in her immensely.

“Of course, Amatus, anything you need, I will do my best to provide.” The words have so many meanings, layered on top of one another, hidden in one another. Solas’ is smart enough to know what he is saying, and the look he receives is contemplative. As if Solas is seeing him for the first time. Perhaps it is.

“I know, Fenris. I appreciate everything you do for me.” She sighs, and looks at the tray of food in her hands. She is so tired. Her legs ache, her back aches. “I am going to the house, come with me.” She doesn’t know who she is asking, and refuses to place a name in the sentence, turning carefully before starting toward the home where six children do their late day lessons.

Fenris sighs, watching her leave and eyes Solas. As much as he would love to tell the other man to sling his hook, he can’t. The invitation was too ambiguous, and Solas was her friend before he became more. She needs her friends to keep her calm. He hates that it has to be Solas, but he waves for the other man to follow him, surprised when he does.

They enter the house not long after Jayla, and both greet the young woman Josephine had contracted as the children’s governess. She dips quickly, not saying much to either. The human girl doesn’t know what to make of this, no one has to say so.

“Papae?” Carrie pops around the corner, little ears twitching under her mop of hair. “Papae is here! Fen is here! Come play!” The small girl is joyous and that alone chases away much of Fenris’ discomfort. He greets the children lowly, and allows Solas to do so as well before shuffling them back into their room.

“What game would you play with us, _dulce puella_?”

“Mamae taught us pattycakes a long time ago. That.” The four-year-old replies with a nod of her head, a smile stretching her lips.

Fenris is at a loss, he has never heard of pattycakes. Reluctantly, he turns to Solas, who looks amused. “I assume you know this game, Jayla taught them?”

“I do, da’len.” Solas can’t stifle the smug amusement that comes with Fenris not knowing a game for the children. More so as he watches those feathers ruffle as the younger man tries to figure a way around asking Solas to teach him. In the end, he can’t.

“Would you provide a demonstration?”

“Of course,” his reply is smooth, and he folds himself into a seated position on the floor, indicating the warrior do the same. “It is a simple game, but a good one for little ones learning coordination and rhymes.  A favorite of Jayla and Eldhru.”

The smugness melts off his face at the mention of his little mage. Fenris has noticed that some of the children had attached themselves more securely to the former couple than others. The youngest and maglings seem to be the ones to consider them parents, will some of the others were warming to him considerably faster. Erymben in particular found him more interesting than Solas or the Herald. Likely because the child dreamed of being a knight. A worthy goal, if lofty.

Fenris softens considerably as Solas’ eyes cloud. There is guilt hanging on him like a heavily weighted coat. He may not like the man, but he can understand the guilt he feels, that relentless feeling of failure. For the longest time, Fenris felt that in concern to Carver. If he’d been more attentive, perhaps they could have caught the blight sickness sooner. That Anders had been around was a small blessing. Very, very small.

Reaching out, he settles a hand gently on Solas’ shoulder. The elder man’s eyes clear and snap to his face. The strangest stormy blue almost grey he’s ever seen. “We will retrieve Eldhru and the others, Solas. None of us will rest until they are safe from the clutches of that damned Magister.”

Perhaps the words are harsh, but Fenris isn’t exactly known for being the softest of men. He is trying, however, staying in line with his earlier statements. He does not like Solas, but he respects that Jayla loved him, perhaps still does. Squeezing the shoulder in his grasp he lets go after several moments and straightens up, rolling his shoulders.

“Right, teach me this game.”

 

 

“Herald, there is too much at stake to lay siege to Redcliffe castle. The trail I followed, it led straight to the Templar encampment in Therinfal. We have no idea if the children are in Redcliffe still or have been moved. There are too many –“

Her head feels like it’s going to explode as she leans over the war table. The entire inner circle is in the room, with Isabella and Zevran as well. The arguments have been flying around and around the room since Cullen came back with his news. Her magic is held tight to her skin and crawls along her limbs. It comes down to what choices she’s willing to make.

“Commander, Redcliffe is in the hands of a _Magister_. This cannot be allowed to stand!” Cassandra has things a touch easier than Jayla in this. She looks at this objectively without ties to either side, not truly. Seekers are not Templars, as she has been told several times.

“The Letter from Alexius asked for the Herald of Andraste by name, and Therinfal is only looking to the Inquisition now because we’ve influence with several large noble houses in Ferelden and Orlais. It’s an obvious trap on one side, and something that could be promising on the other,” Josephine is quick to interject, though she looks pained for suggesting the Templars are the safer route.

“So, the bastard wasn’t fooling around when he said he would be in touch. That, at least, I expected.” She lifts her head, looking at her advisors in turn, ignoring the inner circle for the moment.

“And yet, some of us want to sit and do nothing.” Leliana’s cool voice cuts into the room and Jayla can’t help but think she might be right.

Josie’s nose wrinkles, her lip pulls up, “Not this again.”

“Redcliffe castle is one of the _most_ defensible fortresses in Ferelden. It has repelled thousands of assaults.” Cullen is irritated, and she knows why. It must feel like they are ignoring what he’s found out of hand. But, there is more evidence that the children are in Redcliffe than Therinfal. Either option is horrible. Either terrifies her.

“If you go in there, my lady, you’ll die. And we will lose the only means we have of closing these rifts. I can’t – I won’t allow it.” He looks so earnest and pained but the words make Jayla half combust in response. Her aura surges even as she keeps it tight against her skin.

“If we don’t even try to meet Alexius, we lose the mages and leave a hostile foreign power with an army on our doorstep!” Leliana cuts in before Jayla can open her mouth.

“Even if we _could_ assault the keep it would be for naught.”

Jayla’s mind screams that it would not be for nothing. Her children, they would have a fighting chance. The mark has jumped carriers once, it could do so again. She isn’t needed to close the damned rifts, another could be found, trained. Her hands grip at the table and she says nothing, focused on keeping calm.

“An “Orlesian” Inquisitor’s army marching into Ferelden would provoke a war. Our hands are tied.”

“No, they aren’t.” Jayla looks up from the table, where her hand prints are slowly searing into the wood. “I am no Orlesian, I am Rivaini, and that will not provoke a war. There are too many damn secrets at play, and I only have the facts as presented to me. There are hundreds of lives at stake here, hell the fate of Thedas is at stake here.  This decision is what it all rides on.” And she is compromised in making it.  How can she get around a choice? How can she appease them all?

“We have been out played, my lady.” Cullen sounds defeated, and Jayla refuses to believe her _Commander_ is laying down in front of a mage admitting defeat.

“Only if we play by their rules.” Her hand slaps against the table, mind racing. How can she do this, how can she get around this obstacle. “Whoever is behind Alexius, and whatever is going on in Therinfal, they both want me. That is the root of it. So, we have to give both sides what they want. Neither side will react well to our apologies anyway. It isn’t as if they will fade off into the sunset when we choose a single side to approach.”

Leliana makes a soft sound of agreement, looking at the struggling young Herald. It is hard to remember this woman is twenty-two, that she was only a dancer before she was thrust into this world. She’s changed so much, and they forced every single one of those changes. They are even now forcing more from her. “They will remain a threat, and a powerful one, unless we act.”

“We cannot accept defeat now, there must be a solution to this.” Cassandra is also watching Jayla, keeping an eye on the mana so carefully controlled. Her respect for the young mage ratchets up the longer she keeps herself leashed.

“What about the Arl? It’s his castle, his home, how could he not appreciate help in getting it back?”

“After he was displaced, Arl Teagan rode straight for Denerim to petition the Crown for help. I very much doubt want or need our assistance once the Ferelden army lays siege to his castle.”

Jayla’s heart thuds against her ribs. If that were to occur, her children would die. What soldier would take care to look for children? What soldier would not assume in the middle of a siege that they were hers?

“Wait –“Leliana’s tone suggests she has information. “There is another way. There is a secret passage into the castle, an escape route for the family. It’s too narrow for our troops, but we could send agents in.”

Hope blooms but of course Ser Curls and Fur just has to dash them. “Too risky. Those agents will be discovered well before they reach the magister. “

“That’s why we need a distraction.” Those eyes shift to Jayla, cool and calculating. “Perhaps the envoy Alexius wants to badly?”

Brown eyes settle on her, contemplative. “While the attention is on Lady Shepard, we dismantle their trap. Dangerous, but it could work.” _Thank the gods and all the stars in the sky._

The door slams open and Jayla jumps. Swords are pulled and magical auras swell in the room, even hers leaps out, only to find – Dorian?  “Fortunately, you’ll have help.” He has that smug smile on his face, one that says he was timing his entrance.  A scout, a very haggard scout, comes in behind him, and sighs.

“This man says he has information about the Magister and his methods, Commander.”

Jayla shakes her head, eyeing Dorian with her head tilted toward him as he stands beside her on her right, effectively sandwiching himself between her and Fenris. He nods, looking oddly serious, which is not a look she’s seen on him before this. Sober, yes, dismissive and laughing, brushing off danger, absolutely. So, there are more sides to the precious peacock, how interesting. Cullen, while his sword is not drawn, looks tense. And with an entrance like Dorian’s Jayla can see why. Though it is highly amusing to her.

“Your spies will never get past Alexius’ magic without my help. So, if you’re going after him, I’m coming along.”

“My lady?” Cullen looks at her, and shifts. “This plan puts you in the most danger. We can’t, in good conscience, order you to do this. We can still choose the templars, and not take the bait Alexius has set for you.”

That startles a laugh from the swarthy young woman, whose magic flairs before settling around her. “Oh, you’re damn right on that count. And we’re doing this – with an extra facet. You said the trail lead to Therinfal, I won’t leave that stone unturned. Cassandra, Vivienne, you and Sera will go to Therinfal. There is enough political clout with just Cassandra and Vivienne at your side to get in the door, but you’re taking the Orlesians with you. The Templar want nobles around? They can have them.” Her eyes shift around the room.

“Bull, you’re my strongest and you’re staying here. I need you, Isabela, and the Chargers to protect my town, and protect my kids. Keep Leliana and Josephine safe if something happens while the Commander is on his mission. Fenris, Solas, and Varric will be accompanying Dorian and I. A compliment of three magi and one very Anti-Tevinter warrior should truly send the message home for the rebel mages. None of us are going to pull punches when we do this. We leave the same day, we all ride hard for our destinations. I want this as simultaneous as possible, there are so many lives at stake, and so much stinking shit to deal with that this must go perfectly, or we are screwed from today to next Makersday.”

Her eyes slide around the room, taking in the various reactions to her edict. The council may rule, but her word is the last one to be heard. Her lead is the one that is followed, and now she knows without a doubt that is the truth.

“Aw shit, why do I got to go with her lady snooty ship?” Sera sighs dramatically and eyes Vivienne with disdain. The feeling is apparently mutual.

“She does have a point, Herald. You could do much better sending only the Commander, Cassandra and I to Therinfal.” Vivienne looks as put out as Sera sounded. Jayla squishes that shit under her heel.

“Unfortunately for both of you, I make these decisions. Sera provides a distinctly unique point of view, one that Cassandra and yourself, Lady Vivienne, are lacking. Cullen has a specifically Military focus, you, a pro-circle focus, Cassandra is nobility and technically, above the Templars, though also subordinate to the Lord Seeker. Sera sees what we do not. She goes where we do not. She is going with you and her job is to tear that damn keep apart to find any sign of children. Any and all found will be removed from Templar care no matter the outcome of the audience. I trust you, Vivienne, to talk circles around the Templars in charge, while Cullen appeals to their sense of brotherhood and Cassandra is to deal with the Lord Seeker.

I could leave Solas or Varric behind, or attempt to tell Zevran to not trail me, which I know he won’t, while taking Dorian and Fenris with me, giving the Iron Bull a little more backup from my point of view. However, we know Alexius has it out for me, and I am unwilling to risk shit going poorly. I have too many things to deal with, and my focus is split already. I will not lie; my priority is my children and the Mage rebellion being turned over to Inquisition hands. I won’t be looking for an attack, and when it comes, I need an extra set of eyes looking out for it. Now, does anyone else have anything to say about this? Or are we going to get our supplies, repair our armor and get ready to blast apart these two massive powers that are attempting to fuck us all over?”

The silence that rings out around her makes her beam, and her hand slaps the table in triumph. “We’re finally making progress. Let’s get out of this room, it’s hotter than the devil’s anus in here.” With a skip in her step, Jayla heads for the door, startled laughter following her.


	48. Falling into traps is easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therinfal and Redcliffe - the sieges begin

Cullen should have known not to take the Lord Seeker at his word. A gaggle of Nobles around him, spouting idiocy of this being akin to the mass murder of elves and e reclaiming of the dales. He despises Nobility. Not for their money, nor their seeming happiness. No, Cullen despises the airheaded nature that most choose to adopt and perpetuate.

Josephine, Cassandra, and technically Jayla, all act with the responsibility of their station. They bring honor to their names, and improve the world around them. They wield their power like he wields his sword, and he imagines when push comes to shove, Josephine and Jayla wield their daggers as sharply as they bite out insults. It’s actually rather fascinating to him how similar the two women can be, though the Ambassador is far more adept and willing to mask her distaste and dissatisfaction behind polite words and phrases. Jayla is a hellion, a harpy when pushed. It had put him off at first, but not any longer.  Her blunt nature, and absolute refusal to cow to anyone is refreshing.

Her wild guise and ways have opened his eyes of late. She has shown him a different half of the world, and made him look beyond his own fears. She’s made him see himself and his mistakes for what they are. Though, in moments like this, with powdered and perfumed people all around him, Cullen has to wonder if Jayla likes him at all, or if he will perpetually be attempting to gain her favor ad trust. A darkly colored young man comes out of the gate, and he looks – unsettled.

“I present Knight-Templar Ser Delrin Barris, second son of Bann Jervin Barris of Ferelden.”

 

 

The light is intense, the heat as well, but Jayla does not regret her decision to push Dorian out of the way with a buffet of magic. What does tear her heart in two, are the broken cries from Solas, Fenris and the children. They knew this could happen, at least, she had. She knew her death could come here. The light engulfs her, her ears pop painfully, and blackness greets her.

The Dancer come Battle Mage wakes some time later, she can’t be sure if it was a moment or three days, and groggily takes stock of her surroundings. It’s the forest. It’s the forest she first met Action in. That revelation makes her nose scrunch, and reflexively pull the veil to wrap around her. She doesn’t know if this is a dream, or if the dream, the dreamers, the spirits, come to the Fade when they pass out of the flesh. She’s got many questions right now.

Standing cautiously, Jayla looks up at the sky. Her mouth drops open when she finds it to be teal in coloration. Is this what the sky looks like in death? Where is she. Why this forest again? Shaking her head, the young woman starts forward, picking her way carefully through dense undergrowth, eyes sliding to and fro, looking for any lurking Elven archers. She doesn’t need a dream to become reality, no more than it had that night, at any rate.

In no time at all, Jayla feels as if she is being watched. It makes the fine hairs at the nape of her neck stand on end, and her steps slow, the veil coils around her tighter, and the rogue slides into the shadows as an extra precaution. Nothing good can come from this. Her heart pounds in her chest, and her hands grasp at her daggers, pulling them from their sheaths as she walks.

All the she needs is to find a reference point to get to Redcliffe. She needs that and a reference for where, or when, given the fact Alexius was playing with time, she is. It worries her, if she was sent forward, how does she get back? If she was sent back – can she go forward?  Pressed against an outcropping of rock, Jayla reaches out tentatively with her aura. Or she would have been tentative, but her aura all but explodes from her, startling the little mage so badly she drops all her camouflage.

Her watcher materializes to her left, and the yelp she lets out shames her. Here she is, a rogue, fairly accomplished for how long she’s been rogueing about, and an elven mage has scared the daylights out of her. Her eyes are wide as she takes him in. Gaunt, pale, almost milk white, with jade eyes that pierce. His hair is silvery, she can’t tell if it’s from age or choice or natural. She’s seen a fair few white-haired youths among the mages and even Fenris.

Oh gods, Fenris. He’ll be going mad. Her mark flairs with her anxiety and makes those jade eyes lock onto her hand. It’s enough that Jayla takes a half step back before she can stop herself. The silence stretches between them, her with her daggers out, her armor minimal, a show of trust as well as an attempt to make her seem more confident and dangerous than she is. Now she wishes she’d been in full battle rattle.

His armor is silver with a faint green shine to it. Elven, but so much more intricate than anything she’s seen Solas draw or describe, anything Strength and Command have shown her. Even Action’s clothing wasn’t this intricate. Part of her wants to speak, and part is afraid to. The last time she’d been in this forest alone it had ended poorly for her.

“What a _strange_ little mortal, that magic should be killing you.” The voice is deep, like a rumble before a storm. Heralding a storm. It makes her swallow, eyeing the figure warily. His head tilts slowly, eyes trailing over her far more intimately than Jayla is comfortable with.

“No scarring either, and more than a few remnants of magic not your own on you.” Stepping forward, the elven man starts to circle the little human who plays at being a rogue. He hasn’t seen such a manifestation of his brother’s magic in eons. The cunning younger general had made such a thing only once, and it was their doom. The wolf who betrayed his pack.

The elf’s mind moves fluidly, quickly through possibilities and the likelihood of each. She is young, but her magic tastes of the veil, that damnable prison. She carries no focus, no staff. Her hair is as black as his is silver, her eyes are dark as his are bright. They are a mirror of one another, two sides of one coin. How fanciful.

“What is your name, child.” He speaks in trade slowly, as if he isn’t used to it. Truly the cumbersome language is anathema to him, but most of the chattel speak it now. So, he and his surviving family must as well. Even so, his words are threaded with his own personal brand of magic. He wanted truth, he wanted all her secrets, and he won’t stop until he has them from her.

“Jayla Shepard.”  Her voice is pleasing, melodic, lower than he would have thought from such a small thing. Her eyes are sharp, and her plush red lip pull into a frown making the gold adornments in her skin wink in the light. She’s smart, he can feel her mind already working out what he’s done to her.

She takes another step away from him, he can taste her magic rising. Such an odd taste. Otherworldly, if he had to give it a fanciful name. Certainly not like most of the human shem’len, and absolutely different from the elvhen shem’len’s magical auras.

“Who are you? For that matter, where am I?” Her voice doesn’t shake, though she is clearly distressed. How novel, a brave human mage.

“My father named me **Banreas** , and perhaps it is fitting you use that name as well.” A secretive smirk pulls at the pale elf’s mouth and he watches as those dark eyes shrink in fear. She doesn’t know elvhen, but she has a good grasp of him. Such a little empath. Perhaps that is how she survives the magic burrowed into her bones, perhaps that is why she has no scar upon her soul. What a treat. To have his brother’s magic bearer at his disposal. What wonderful things can he learn from her? What secrets does she have?

“I am sure you are afraid, but I promise you, I mean you no harm, young one. Lady Shepard, I would be honored to give you shelter from the Forest of Arlathan.”

Her heart is thudding against her ribs. His magic slinks around him, and she knows that he’d threaded some spell into his question. He terrifies her, and he has secrets, dangerous secrets. If there was ever a time she needs to know what will happen next – it’s now.

A dangerous decision but Jayla makes a snap decision, putting up a proper barrier and willing herself into a state of meditation. She has to know to run or stay, and she needs to know who she can trust. Will she get home? Will she see the children again, Fenris, Solas, Isabela? Her magic crashes into her, around her, and that nausea she expects doesn’t come.

What does come is the past. It isn’t easily identifiable as the past, but the coloration is the same. He is simply younger. He – _Action_? Why is he speaking with Action, why does he call Action – _Oh gods_. Her eyes snap open and she shrieks to find him before her, jade eyes black and a vicious smile on his mouth.

“A little seer, full of Fen’Harel’s magic. A treat indeed, let’s see what happens, shall we, when I take it all away, hm?”

“What – no-!” Her hands move her storm magic crackling to the fore when blackness overtakes her senses. There is no light, she can’t hear anything, she doesn’t, she can’t.

The small human collapses under the weight of his magic, though she stood longer than he’d thought she would. It’s nothing for him to pluck her from the ground, her daggers left to rot in the undergrowth as he makes his way to his strong hold. His brother’s marked mage, a seer, of sorts. Seeker of secrets. How delicious. He would have fun breaking his brother with her. The younger mage is so soft, always has been, and one of his agents, a high ranking one no doubt, in his control?

Oh, this will turn the tides of this damned war. He will get rid of that abomination from Tevinter, with her, and then, he will kill Fen’Harel with his own magic.

 

Cullen would never leave Haven again if he got out of this with his mind intact. The Knights Vigilant were mad, the Knight Captains and some of the Lieutenants as well. It is a blood bath, the Nobles – most are dead, that idiot Abernache alive only by the grace of Andraste herself. Sera is doing as she was told, running into the bowels of the keep, while the ‘red’ Templars swarm the small group that had come with the Inquisition and the Templars who had refused to take the suspicious lyrium. If there is a battle Cullen never wanted to fight, it is this one.

The sick song of red lyrium screams in his mind, and his helm feels five sizes too small as he hacks and slashes his way through men and women he had known once upon a time. Making their way toward the keep, he is assaulted not only by the lyrium’s call but the voice of the Lord Seeker. It is Kinloch hold all over again.

Part of him quails at the very thought, the notion he might spend days once more tormented and tortured by demons. But, he is no longer an eighteen-year-old youth. He has seen horrors, fought horrors, survived horrors and madness the likes of which he could never have imagined. Even now – this battle, these horrors of flesh and crystal are nothing his worst nightmares could have conjured for him. These monsters had been good knights at one time. These monsters had followed their leaders demands.

This is what becomes of men taught to follow orders and do nothing more than that. This is what occurs when the teachings of obey and do not question are pounded into people from the time they can hold a sword. This could have been him. Had he not sought a better way. Had he not renounced the Templar Order as corrupt and walked away from it all – he would be one of these terrible abominations.

How long has Thedas thought Templar above physical corruption? Why did it take Kinloch to begin to open his eyes to how vulnerable he and his fellows truly are? Why did he not begin to think earlier in the years he called Kirkwall home, when knights became abominations and Meredith ruled with a fist made of dawnstone. It took all of that to make him walk away from the order. It took all of that to get him to this point. He mounts the steps to the keep and yells for Cassandra and Vivienne to close ranks with him, Barris had assigned another rogue to go with Sera.

Cullen can only pray their mission is successful – successful in that there are no children here. No child should see these monstrosities, be exposed to this kind of bloodshed. With a yell, and his head pounding, Cullen charges forward, meeting the addled Templar and transformed with all his might. He will not fail the Inquisition, he will not fail his Herald. He won’t fail his brothers who have fallen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Banreas - Pure Darkness


	49. It's finding the way between the fall and the rise that is hard

Fenris is ready to rip Alexius’ heart out. The flash of magical light, the sight of Jayla being engulfed, it is enough to rip him in two. Solas – Solas is a wreck and Dorian as well. Zevran is the only reason Alexius lives, standing between the warrior and his target, stating loudly and firmly that Jayla needs the worm alive.

They need information. They need that scraping of nug shit to get her back from wherever she was sent. Dorian, well, he is proving himself useful, grabbing the amulet from the ground and thrusting magic into it. Investigating, looking for what exactly made the spell work, looking for the lynch pin that will allow them to reverse what was done to her.

“You’ve failed, Inquisition. I held my end of the bargain, the Elder one triumphs.” There is a tiredness to the Magister that grates at the warrior. Even as Zevran turns and punches him with all the force he has, Fenris wants to hear more. Who is the Elder One? Why did this person want Jayla gone, or dead? Gods, let her not be dead. She can’t be dead, she is stronger than this, and far too important.

“Altus, work faster.” He growls, paces like a caged dog. He wants to rip into something, do something, fix anything. Jayla should not have taken the brunt of that attack, that magic. It should have been the man now working to identify a way to return her here.

“Fenris.” Solas’ voice, cracked, low, broken, calls him and intense angry eyes fall on him. “We need to secure the keep, Jayla’s children, if they are here. We can do nothing to help the situation here.”

Objective, something unfathomable to Fenris right now, but he ascents and follows the older elf out of the reception hall. Silently they stalk into the lower rooms of the house. Silently they kill any stragglers the Nightingale’s agents missed. They are few and far between. A small blessing. Very small in the face of what has occurred.

“Father? _Babae_?” Solas jerks around in a mild panic when he hears Tara’s voice. It seems – wrong somehow. Off. His feet slap against the cold stone of the castle, Fenris not far behind him. He finds the eldest of the magelings, and drops to his knees in front of her cell.

“Ashalantarasylnin…. _Da’len ahn emas ea’em ma_?”

 

Jayla can’t speak – and it is not because she doesn’t wish to. She wants to scream for her captor, she needs to be free of these chains. However, not long after she woke, she found herself unable to locate words for the concepts her mind provides, her eyes are open but only blackness greets her, she can feel when she moves, but hears nothing.  If the void is a real place, she is sure that _this_ is what it is.

Food comes, cool crisp liquid, soft foods that have juice and some that are granular. But she tastes nothing. The magic has a strong hold on her, and she knows it must be magic. She doesn’t feel the trickle of blood, nor the fatigue that would surely come with it.  She’d been reduced to knowing only touch, and relies heavily upon it. Jayla has no idea who it is who tends to her – only that their hands careful, kind in a distressing manner.

How many days has it been? Have days passed or weeks? How is time moving around her? Does she sleep and dream, or has she been removed from the Fade like a Tranquil? Or is she simply prevented from dreaming? How will she get back to Solas? To Fenris? To Revika? To Tara, Maël, Delphine, Ben, Sylah, Mallory, Niven, Corrado, Eldhru, Carrie, Aeliana and Varnehn? Will the longer she stays here make this future more unavoidable?

Something slides into Jayla, she can’t be sure if it is Purpose or a different spirit, but she knows it must be a spirit. Anything else is a terrifying prospect.  Especially as a calm acceptance washes through her, and Jayla lays her head back to rest.

 

This is perhaps the worst thing Cullen has ever had happen to him. It is worse than Kinloch by far – because this demon, and it is a demon, has driven into his mind. Driven into his mind and taken the Commander with it. It wasn’t to know him, to be him, to destroy the Inquisition. He has watched it play in his form killing Leliana, Cassandra, Josephine. He has watched it subjugate the Herald, and make slaves of her children.

It thinks that is the sort of man he is, and he does not dissuade it. He will give it nothing. Whatever demon it is, to mask itself as the Lord Seeker, to know the man well enough it can gently twist him in such a way only those who know him best would question it is worrying. Giving into the thing’s demands put everything he has ever worked for and wanted at risk. The greatest cause of this age would be thwarted.

He cannot allow that to happen, will not allow it to happen.

“I can help you! Envy, that is its name, and the more you think, the more you are you, the less it can take. It stretches itself thin to make this place, the more you push the more it stretches, and it will not be able to keep you here long enough to take you.” A boy in a large hat appears next to him. Cullen lashes out, latent abilities trying to assess if this is another trick another demon in disguise.

“I’m not a demon! I’m here to help!” The boy all but drags him into a side room in the bastardized version of a chantry Envy has provided. “I am here to help, I am good, I will not hurt, I heal the hurts. I am good.”

Cullen doesn’t know if this will end in folly or triumph, but the boy has none of the feeling of a demon. No malice, no sucking sensation of the world around him. He gives instead of takes. There are few choices here, and Cullen is not the man to let pride take him down. Not in this situation and certainly not when demons lurk about.

“What do you know of this, Envy, as you name it?”

“It serves the Elder One...”

 

“Shite!” Sera looks at the little bodies in the cell. Breathing, thank the Maker, or Jayla would have all their hides, but they are broken. That arm is bent the wrong way, there is blood leaking from that one’s temple. This is not good. Not good at all.

“Hey clunky, get over here, give me your healing potions and scabbard. We gotta set this arm and then force feed them potions. If they don’t live, we don’t live. Herald will let the sky eat us, and she’d be right to.” It’s the+ most serious Sera has appeared to any member of the inquisition. The teenager far prefers her jokes and laughter to this. But these are little kids.

She wants to slam whoever did this to little kids right in the knob. Bastards. Jay was right to send them here. Right to send her here. Much as she hates all this shit, the magic, the weird templars, the demons, she’s best suited to slipping away when it’s needed.  

“Hey, hey, Eli, hey blondie, that’s right, your momma sent me to come get you. I got a potion for you, make that headache go away. Then we’ll fix up Cor’s arm, yeah? We’ll have you all home before supper, and you’ll get some nice puddin’ just you see.” Coaxing the smallest child toward her, the inquisition soldier gives over six healing potions. Three weak ones and three doozies. Eli is too small for a doozie, and that cut doesn’t need all that power.

“Here look at this, small as my finger, yeah? Drink it up, get your brother, is that Nehn over there? Bring him here. Is he hurt too?”

 

“Ah, Da’len, there you are.” The blind woman jerks back from the voice that accompanies the hands that lift her head. Who is that? The touch isn’t familiar to her, the hands are calloused, the voice low and loud. So loud.  She’s never heard anything as loud as this. Why can she hear now? Why is someone speaking to her? Invading her darkness, her solace? Part of her disconnects as she is lifted and sounds of distress leave her, and those hands pull her forward, her cheek presses against something soft.

“Hush, hush now. You’re safe here, da’len. My little _Alnirafenen_ – you’ve been lost a long time. I need my Commander back, now that I have found you.”

Was she lost? Was she saved now?  Is _Alnirafenen_ her name?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Babae - Alernate form of Father  
> Da’len ahn emas ea’em ma - Little one, what have they done to you?  
> Alnirafenen - dances with wolves


	50. Alnirafenen, she dances with wolves

When the light fades on the next day, Solas begins to truly worry. The children were sequestered in one of the untouched rooms with himself and Fenris within the Keep’s family wing. A scout of Leliana’s is looking after them, a Raven sent to Leliana urging her to come and stall the troops of the King if it could be done. The situation with Jayla’s disappearance detailed, and Alexius currently held within the cages he had kept the children in.

“He’s lucky we still need him to help the Altus with the magic to recall Jayla if it is even possible.” Fenris is a wreck, as much as the man allows himself to be. There is a bottle at his elbow, and Solas can’t claim he is better than the younger man in this. He has downed three in the span of the last few hours, and there is none of the pleasant numbness he seeks.

“Do not give up on her yet, she is more capable than we yet know.” Solas speaks with hope, though it is thin hope. Jayla against all odds, has learned to fight with a modicum of finesse, her magic grows, she navigates the paths he has shown her in the Fade with relative ease, and she walked from one world into another. For a woman as young as her, to have accomplished all that in under a year, is impressive to say the very least. But, Jayla is a woman like any other. She is a human without parallel or equivalent.

He puts it down to Jayla being of another world, surely if she had been born here, in Thedas, she would be just as brutish and lack luster as any of the humans he has encountered. An uncharitable thought, but right now, with Tara asleep, head pillowed on his thigh, an act she said was ‘without use’, Solas is hard pressed to find anything good about the barbarians. As always, they have proven themselves to be the worst of the worst.

“She still loves you,” Fenris can’t help the words tumbling out of his mouth. They have plagued him, in the few days he has had Jayla, this knowledge rips at him the most. “She may take me to bed, but Jayla loves you.”

Solas’ head snaps up, eyes wide and then impossibly sad. “Da’len, you cannot do that to yourself. She cares for you, make no mistake of that. You and she share an affinity that she and I do not. The relationships are different, and yet equally strong. She may not say she loves you, and perhaps she doesn’t yet, but give her time. Jayla is nothing if not a woman with an extraordinary capacity for love.”

“Perhaps. It would be my due, however, to love a woman who does not love me in return.” Solas’ eyes travel over the youth who has been his rival. He looks, resigned, and ready to call defeat.

“Don’t become a self-fulfilling prophecy, Fenris. Let her find her way to you, and you will be happy with her. She has an amazing ability to defy expectation and bring light into the darkest places. She is your woman, and she doesn’t take such titles lightly.”

“How did you walk away from her? You love her still, that is obvious. I don’t understand how it came to be you are there and I am here, and she is somehow between us without being between us.”

“You are aware of my attachment to Fen’Harel. I cannot stray from my duty to the People, my commitment to him. Jayla – by the stars – I would give up everything for her. I would walk away from duty and commitment to give all of myself to her. That is why I had to walk away. She is all consuming, and I know she does not try to be, but that is an innate quality she cannot shake. Surely you’ve noticed?”

“I – Yes. I think I would walk through the deep roads to be with her.”

“Then, in some ways, you understand my predicament. Jayla is – amazing. She changes everything she touches, and she wants to do so much more than simply right the wrongs of the Breach and those wrongs levied against the Mages. Even with that knowledge, and knowing the will that she has –“

“You can’t and won’t stray from the future you wish to procure for the elven people.” Fenris finishes Solas’ thought with a sigh. “I have no wish to help you in this rivalry of ours, but did you think to tell the woman about your goals? Jayla is nothing if not fair, and she would walk through the void for you.”

“That is exactly why I will not speak to her of it. To risk her is selfish and while I am selfish enough to have stolen time with her, I will never willingly put her in harm’s way.” Solas speaks softly and Fenris feels an unexpected bloom of respect in his chest for the other man. Respect and something warmer. IT shocks him into turning his eyes from the elder man, trying to figure out what exactly brought that on. Of all the things… of all the times.

“She will rip Alexius in two for his transgressions against her family.” He sighs out the realization, eyes on the eight-year-old sleeping still as death on Solas’ thigh. He’d never thought he’d see the older man cry, and still wonders if it hadn’t been a hallucination, even with the tear stains on the bald man’s face. To do that to a child. He has always known the chantry to be rigid in their beliefs – but the Magister is a mage, this is one of his own. He would never have thought it possible.

Even with living evidence before him, Fenris is appalled at how the Magister turned on a child, harmed a child. He has a child of his own and he still. Shaking his head, Fenris scrubs at his face with his hands, gauntlets discarded.

“Do you truly think we will be able to get her back?” He winces at the sound of his own voice, and does not meet Solas’ eyes.

“We have to hope, da’len. We must keep hoping she is not dead.”

 

“Alnirafenen you are moving too slowly.” That voice that speaks to her near constantly is chiding, disappointed. Her arm smarts where the training sword had slapped against her arm. How could he expect her to be faster, when she still cannot see? Her hearing is not so good that she can always anticipate where he is, and parrying strikes is almost out of the question. It is a skill that relies too heavily on sight, a blade cutting through air barely makes noise and, yet he would have her listen for it.

Her irritated grunt is rewarded with another sharp strike, this one to her left thigh. It sends her to her knees, groaning loudly in protest. He is a task master and a bastard.

“You are the Commander of my Sentinels, you are to be better than they can ever hope to be, and yet here you are, a pathetic heap of shem’len flesh. Your eyes are not needed to fight, and if you believe no one would take them from you to win, you will die before being able to retake your rightful place in the ranks.”  

Those hands, calloused by oddly kind are on her, moving her into position, a lanky form behind her. He never wears armor, but with him being so close, it is certain he’s male. She hadn’t always been sure, she feels she’s known women with deep voices as well. She can’t remember however. It feels like another life, so, so long ago.

“Now, why not ask your little friends to help you, you always learn faster with them bolstering you, emma shem’len.” Kind words, but a slap to the face all the same. Jayla’s jaw clenches, the muscle ticking. Even so, she reaches out, perseverance is there, knowledge as well. They clamor for her attention, and she wonders if either should be entertained. Diligence slides into her without a word, and there are sighs from the other two spirits. She brushes her aura against them, a soft apology and reprimand. The voice can’t know how eager they are, he’s dangerous. She doesn’t know why or how she knows, but it’s almost ingrained into her bones.

“Ah, good girl. Let’s go through the forms, and then you’re sparring with Anduril’s second in command.”

 

Cullen wasn’t sure how to explain to Cassandra how exactly, he had fought of Envy. It was the boy who had helped, the boy who isn’t a boy but not a spirit or a demon either. Still, the monstrosity is free of it’s faked persona and now they battle for the lives of the lieutenants, cutting jagged lines through the red Templars ruthlessly, careful never to get the blood near the eyes of their helms.

They had seen the room detailing the plotted assassination of Celine, had seen the state the children were in, lyrium addled and half starved, one of the smaller ones refusing to wake while an elder one has an arm in a sling. His brothers had done this. He has seen brutality in circles, experienced it, let it happen right under his nose – but this. Most of the children even in Kirkwall’s Gallows had been safe from the touch of the more disgusting Templars, the more radical ones. But – to starve the children, to expose them to red lyrium.

Jayla will destroy whoever is behind this. That there are only three of the six is not a good prospect either. Were the other three passed into the beyond? Had they become abominations? Had one of the Inner Circle or Scout troop cut them down without knowing it? There are too many possibilities and far too few answers. Each time they find and Lieutenant it is as if the Red abominations know and attack the hall the younger templars are gathered in with Barris.

Barris who is a credit to the order and his father, holding the line with a will of iron. Cullen is pleased that Barris survived, more pleased he did not succumb to the temptation of a different more powerful lyrium. All those that remain untainted he is proud of, proud to still feel a kinship with. He hopes when this is all over, they will join the Inquisition readily. It is clear, with only a few hundred men and women in the main hall, that the Templar order is done for.

They simply have to keep those uncorrupted alive, and keep the children, the ones he failed, safe.

He loses track of it all, with the Seeker at his side, the crazed archeress, and Madam de Fer, they fall into the rhythm of battle easily. Occasionally he sees the young boy, the one that had been in his head, helping him with Envy. He moves like a rogue, but utilizes the abilities in a way that is foreign to Cullen. No matter, the boy knows where to strike and when to dodge and that is truly all that matters against the shape shifting demon.

The Commander had been wary when the barrier sprang back into place as his group rushed past the Templars who had suppressed the magic. He isn’t sure if it’s from exhaustion or the power of the demon, but he does hope the men and women they’d saved would hold of any remaining of the corrupted. With the hell raining around him, it’s a bit difficult to imagine any of them will stay alive through this. However, they reign triumphant, his sword sliding into the damned thing’s gullet and lodging in its skull.

 

Alnirafenen was gifted with sight years ago, the blocks on her magic lifted just several after that. Language was learned the hard way, and Banreas was a demanding teacher. Elvhen is the bane of her existence, the language and the Sentinels that claim, ‘first heritage’. Common feels clunky, but Rivaini and Tevene flow easily. Today, however, she needs none of them.

There is a traitor in the ranks and she is tasked to find them. She’s been stalking the suspicious ones, the ones too comfortable and too calm. This one is the worst, and something calls to her about him. Something is there, just under his skin. Her hands clap on either side of his face and her eyes turn black as she burrows into his past, his present. She cares not about his future, though that is within her reach. No, right now she needs the secrets.

Banreas needs the secrets, demands them, just as he demands her absolute loyalty. It’s why silver winks along the edges of her eyes, lyrium placed where none may take it without risking her taking their mind first. She acts as his foci, moves at his side in battle, and wields her magic with destructive clarity.

Ah, Anduril was turning this one. She scoffs in disgust, letting the traitor go, watching as he falls to the ground. The spirit does not fall. No, it sighs, and ~~Jay~~ \- **_Alnirafenen_** , she knows it. Command, her command. She reaches out to it, but it moves away from her, leaving her stricken.

Why did it turn from her? She knew it, surely it knew her as well. She stands staring at that spot until Banreas comes for her. His hand settles on her shoulder, leaching mana from her and it makes her head turn, to the side and up, jade clashing with silvered umber.

_“Garas da'vheraan. Ar nuven’in esh’al el’us.”_

_“Ma nuven’in, Dirthamen.”_

 

“The demon is dead! Andraste be praised, she shielded you from its touch, Commander Rutherford.” Barris looks beyond relieved that Envy is gone, Cullen can’t blame him for such relief. Knowing there is one less demon out to corrupt those around Thedas is a comforting thought. He looks past the younger Templar toward those that gather behind him. His attention shifts back to the dark man, when he goes to rejoin the others.

“We’ve numbers across Thedas, but, we let this happen. Our officers either failed to see it, or were complicit.” Looking at those gathered, he straightens, shoulders thrown back, showing determination and acceptance. “The Templars are ready to hear what the Inquisition needs of us.”

Tired, drained beyond his imaginings thanks to using his abilities without the aid of lyrium, Cullen leans heavily on his shield sword carefully returned to its scabbard. Blunted from battle or not he would not lean upon it like a walking stick. Removing his helm and casting a look over his shoulder, his eyes fall on the Breach. What would the Lady Herald say in a moment like this? Would she scold the remaining Templars, or rally them behind her banner?

“There was much corruption here. But I still see the valor and honor within each and every one of you who stood fast against the orders of those who would have lead you to your doom. Show Thedas you are true to your vows, that you are True Templars. Our calling was to protect, to watch, to act in the moments when there was nothing left to do. The Breach will destroy this world and all we hold dear if you do not stand with the Inquisition and aid us in closing it. This is what every moment of training and every hour of prayer has prepared you for. Protect the mages, the common people, the very ground we stand on from a magic that would tear the fabric of our beloved Thedas apart.”

Admiration shines in the dark Templar’s eyes as he moves forward away from the gathered group once more. Cullen clears his throat, shocked at his rather verbose call to arms. But, he muses with a slight smile, that is what Jayla would do. The Herald is a woman of word and action combined, but her words reach far, and her influence, it would seem, farther.

“You speak truths we should never have ignored. However, the Order is leaderless, Commander, gutted by this betrayal we must rebuild it.”

Now is the hardest part. Cullen knows exactly what Jayla would do, she would leash the Templars at first, she would make them prove their trustworthiness in front of the mages and folk of Haven. She had said she would pull this world into being better if she had to. Cullen cannot undermine that.

“You are leaderless, and the Order is a drift after this chaos. Yield to the Herald’s leadership, become part of the Inquisition and find your way a new. Show the world the Templars are not to be feared, that you are more than the brutality that has been shown on the battlefield and exposed with in the circles. Show the world they can still respect this Holy Order. The legacy of the Templars cannot and will not die today, it will be renewed under the Inquisition’s banner.”

“The Inquisition will become your home, we will feed you, clothe you, armor you, give you a place to learn trades beyond that of the sword and pen, we will give you harbor and succor if you wish to leave the leash of lyrium behind. All we require is your loyalty, and your help in return.”

Barris looks pained, but nods in understanding. The Order could not continue as it had been, it could not cling to doctrines so easily bent and broken. The offer is as good as they will come across. He turns to those left, and he gestures to the Inquisition party.

“Do we take the Inquisition’s offer, brothers and sisters?”

The cheer that erupts from the crowd shocks Cullen, and looking around, he can see it shocks Cassandra as well. Vivienne looks soured, and Sera wary, tired, but it is not their approval that matters. With a relieved sigh he straightens.

“Tonight, we burn the dead, we give them last rights, and tomorrow we march for Redcliffe to meet with the Herald and the mages of Thedas who have chosen to throw their lot in with yours. From there Haven, where we will close the Breach – together.”

 

She is a furious thing, his Alnirafenen. In her memories he sees she was a dancer, an entertainer, a woman who would likely be described as loose were one to know only her job. But she is and will always be more than the job she took to make her life in that strange world of hers. Alnirafenen is the key to the future, her power is immeasurable, her skill with sword and dagger enviable.

Human though she may be, the pact she’d made with Action has sustained her through these long years of captivity and conditioning. The anchor is dormant now, the veil gone, it’s purpose removed, but it is still within her, the power of Fen’Harel, settled in her bones, in her lungs. Banreas sees it every time someone dares push her too far, every time someone attempts to assassinate him.

What luck he’d had when he found her that day in the forest. Alone, vulnerable. Her will is a thing of beauty, and even her weeks of solitude did not break it. It had taken the help of spirits and his particular brand of magics to bend her. It had taken decades, though, the elven man is not sure she realizes just how long she’s been in his care. Not that it matters. He has what he wanted from her, a vessel for power, a knight worthy of the name, the lynch pin in winning against the Elder One, a false god and pain in the side of the remaining Evanuris.

Later when they’ve won, he will find other uses for her, for her power. She will make a good pet, perhaps even a good consort now that his twin is long lost to the ravages of the void. It would, perhaps, kill his dearest little brother, to see her at his side, to see his mark on her, to know she bears _his_ children. While blood purity is a problem, the magical potential alone is enough to overlook the halfling status. She is an elf in all but physical form as it is. He would not change that for anything, either. No, she is a beautiful and fierce thing without delicate ears or long elegant limbs.

Besides, if he changed her, Solas would never see her for who she is. The damned dreamer would likely feel her essence and assume this his great love reborn. His falon’saota felled by shem’len magic and given back in proper elvhen form. That just would not do, not when Banreas’ plans are so close to fruition.

 

“I know how I can reverse the spell.” Dorian all but screams as Cullen comes into Redcliffe Castle. It is a moment of pandemonium at this announcement, and he notes that everyone looks both terrified and hopeful. What has been going on?

Dorian, is tired. Exhausted really. But, the revelations he’s made in the last few hours are the most promising thing since he’d had the breakthrough with Alexius years ago on the nature of time magic. That is to say, this would actually work, if he did everything exactly right. If one thing was off, the chances of blowing the castle to smithereens is rather high. His eyes light upon the golden Commander, and he notes the vanguard of Templars with him.

“Well, it seems our conquering hero of a Commander will be joining us. Do keep your dogs on a leash, hm? I’ve magic to cast and so much as an inkling of suppression magic and you’ll kill everyone in a league of this place. Including us.” The Altus is serious, deadly serious but it doesn’t stop the questions that pour from the Commander.

“What the hell are you talking about? What magic is this?” His whiskey colored eyes shift about the room, squinting as he cannot find the Herald. This is what Dorian is worried about the most. Templars of the south tend to stab first and ask later. No matter how far removed Rutherford is from his stabby ways, he is still a warrior. They are not much better.

“Where is Lady Shepard.”

“Dead,” Varric breaths the word, slurs is more accurately and Dorian would like to shake the shit out of that damned man. He hastens to reassure the stricken Commander.

“Now, now. Let’s not be dramatic. She’s been displaced in time, that’s all. My spell collided with the one Alexius cast and as far as I can guess, stranded her in the past or the future. But, I can and will be reversing the spell used. In fact, I had just broken the code to it when you arrived. Give me a few hours and we’ll have our beautiful Herald back with nary a scar on her lovely body, save the two small ones on her face, of course.

Cullen blinks slowly, trying to wrap his head around this. The Herald was thrust either back or forward in time. Varric believes her dead. Dorian believes he can bring her back. It’s hard to believe. This entire quest becomes stranger the longer the days drag on.

“Did you find the children?”

“Ah, yes. Solas and Fenris found them.” Dorian shifts uncomfortably. He’d seen them, and he has no idea how to fix _that_.

“What’s wrong?”

Cringing, he passes a hand through his hair, patting it into place after. “Suffice to say, my dear Commander, the children did not come out of this ordeal unscathed. If you wish to see them, well, if you wish to see Solas and Fenris, they are in the Arl’s quarters.”

Making a shooing motion, Dorian goes to rest. He needs sleep, food, and wine, not in that order, before he can perform this spell. He needs to brace himself for the hell storm that will be unleased when Jayla is returned. If she returns. No. She must come back, or they are all doomed.

“Commander,”

“Yes?” Rutherford sounds harried, tired, as tired as Dorian feels if possible.

“Tell me you found the other three.”

“We did, though they are not without their traumas.”

“I suppose we should be glad they are all alive.” Shaking his head, Dorian heads for the kitchens. Wine first, food and then sleep. If he can sleep, that is.

 

Her screams echo in the chamber. Banreas is not deterred, pressing his magic down over her to keep her still. She will pass out again, and that will be a blessing, for his ears and her, when it happens. She had accepted this, she had known the pain it would cause, and yet the damned woman cannot keep herself quiet. The lyrium settles into her skin delicately, the etchings fine, and beautiful against her dark skin, paired with the white barbarian marks that also decorate her. Working carefully, the etchings are overlaid with lyrium around her wrists, her ankles, at the top of her unmarred left thigh. Silvery lines along her cheekbones, and the crown of it all where her diadem would ideally sit. It’s harder to keep her under his control like this.

The strange human embraces pain, chases after it. It gives her a clarity Banreas never anticipates. For all he has had her near two centuries now, she still surprises him. But tomorrow, tomorrow will bring his plans to bare and he could not be more excited.

_“Shhh da’vhenan'ara, da’vheraan. Ra ju she’ha’lam.”_

The woman that falls from a rip in time is not the one who was engulfed by magic and light. This woman is feral, she is power and destruction and her eyes, her beautiful near black, brown eyes are contaminated now, ringed with lyrium silver and hold no recognition. Solas is horrified. Upon her cheeks lay silver lines, delicate silver lines so much like Fenris’ that it makes his stomach lurch.  His eyes trail down her, she is blood covered, his gentle dancer, she has no new scars, none that he can see at least. Her wrists hold more of the silver lines.

 They are Dirthamen’s marks. Reserved for his Sentinel Commander. Where the others had made their markings extensive, Dirthamen had kept his simple. Simple and cruel. Lyrium folded into the skin, and apparently the eyes, if they survived it, they could never be free of him.

“Jayla.”  His lips form the word but this feral thing that has replaced her doesn’t answer. Her eyes lock on his and he can only see a wild fear and anger that flashes across her face. It is momentary, Fenris shifts, and those eyes lock on him. The sword in her grip is raised, her shield next. _She doesn’t recognize us. She doesn’t understand._

“Jayla!” Taking a step forward, Solas barely catches her attention calling her name. He cannot for the life of him remember the steps to the spell to put her to sleep. Such a simple thing and now he cannot remember. She advances on him, looking unsure before her lips pull back in a snarl.

“Maker, she cannot be possessed, can she?” Vivienne sounds worried, half of the inner circle here to either mourn or greet the Herald upon her return – upon Dorian’s success.

“She’s not possessed!” His words are harsh, and he stands his ground, even as Jayla, beautiful, terrifying Jayla, advances on him. His hands lift, ready to throw a barrier, and Fenris is there, between them. His sword is drawn, and Solas balks. He can’t mean to engage her like this?

“You would die for him?! For the liar, for the betrayer?!” The words are elvhen and perfect. Solas feels as if she has hit him in the solar plexus. What had happened to her? Were those markings real? Why does she know Elvhen now?

“Jayla. Amatus, do not do this.”

It is still so strange to hear him call her such an endearment. Solas is never ready for it, not from Fenris. He should be calling her Vhenan, or Vhenan’ara, not Amatus. Those dark, fathomless eyes look uncertain before something in her hardens.

“That form won’t save you!” She screams it, her face flushing red, hair wild as she lunges forward. Her swings are heavy, precise in a manner Solas is all too familiar with. She throws magic and weapon with a deadly grace.  Fenris is only deflecting her blows, and they dance around the room. Everyone present holds their breath.

“Amatus. Come back. Damn it, Jayla!” He tries, while defending to get her to wake up from whatever waking nightmare has hold of her. It doesn’t work, and Fenris is forced to push back. He deflects and attacks, parries, and uses this reach to his advantage. It is a small advantage. For all that Jayla is fighting like a warrior, she still moves like a rogue, and when Solas feels her pull the veil, he knows she will use her flexibility to possibly – _probably_ \-  kill Fenris.

He slams a dispel into the room, once, twice, three times before Jayla falls from the veil, her stance not as perfect any longer. She weaves, and he can feel her drawing upon the veil again. Her stores are depleted, had been when she came back, he is at a loss. He dispels again, and for a traitorous moment considers the Templar gathered. A smite is a cruel thing, but this is something desperately needed.

“Commander. Smite her.” His words are low, full of loathing and the man in question starts, his eyes locking onto him in question. He repeats himself through grit teeth. “Smite. Her. It may be the only way we save them both.”  In truth, Solas has no idea if Cullen is strong enough to stop Jayla at this point. She is empty but rapidly filling her mana stores. Still, he hopes.

The curt nod he receives is reassuring, but the way Jayla drops, the way the aftershocks roll through the room and make him double over in discomfort, fills him with guilt. None of the mages are happy, but the Herald is alive, caught up in the arms of her bodyguard. Her lover, his replacement.

Gods what mistakes have they all made to get to this moment?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Garas da'vheraan. Ar nuven’in esh’al el’us.” - Come little lion. I need the secrets he had
> 
> “Ma nuven’in, Dirthamen.” As you wish, Dirthamen
> 
> “Shhh da’vhenan'ara, da’vheraan. Ra ju she’ha’lam.” Shh little heart, little lion. It will end soon.
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
> Right, so this has been the plan all along, and I am so, so happy to be here. While this isn't the original format I was going with, it was better than just slinging her forward and bringing her back within the space of a chapter without giving you so much as a glimpse into where she was. I planned on writing an entire other fic to detail her years with Dirthamen, and I still might, but for now, this is what we have to work with. His motivations and glimpses into the life she led away from the Inquisition. 
> 
> The fallout is going to be spectacular. 
> 
> For my wonderful and loyal readers, I hope this doesn't disappoint, and I am sorry I've been mostly avoiding answering the latest reviews/comments. I needed to get this out and done before bits started to degrade within the format I chose. As I said originally it was planned for her departure and return to be within the space of a single chapter and the Templar weren't going to be featured at all. So here we are. 
> 
> Thank you again for all the comments you leave. They mean the world to me and keep me going with this and other stories. 
> 
> As usual, no beta, the mistakes are mine and honest.


	51. May heartbreak raze this place to the ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at it again with crawling toward the first climax. 
> 
> Come see Solas try to find a little bit of Jayla inside Alnirafenen.

Her head is pounding when she wakes. She has not felt such pain in – in… Silvered umber eyes snap open and she snaps into a seated position in the – in the _cell_. An enraged sound rises in her throat, but the Commander does not let it sound, does not do more than narrow her eyes in rage at the offending space around her. They would cage her. The imposters who follow the traitor. Harellan, _Fen’Harel_. He who is action and –

“Vhenan?” That voice makes her eyes slide closed and her fists clench. Why should he call her such? Banreas called her Vhenan when she was at her best when she shone brightest and advanced his grand army in victory. But for _him_ to utter such an endearment.

“Do not call me that, _Wolf_.” A sharp intake of breath makes her look at him, a smirk pulling her lips. An arm drapes over her knees, armor shifting with the movement. “Ah, have I said something wrong, _Fen_ -“

“Stop it.” His voice is laced with power and it slams into her, taking her breath away. What is this? Her aura flails, reaching searching.

“What have you done? Where – why does it feel so dead here?”

Those eyes, eyes he loves and loathes, are on him again. The question is one he has asked time and time again each morning he wakes groggily, still unaccepting of this tranquil world. He is not sure if he is joyous that she now understands his pain, worried she knows his secret or terrified he will never see Jayla restored.

“What would you have me call you, da’len?”

“Alnirafenen.” The crisp reply, the way elven flows from her makes his ears twitch. Everything was taken from her, her name, her soft nature, her magic tastes the same and yet not. His hands slide over his face as he draws a deep breath.

“The veil is present here, as is your anchor.”

“The, veil…” She is confused, eyes squinting as she looks at him, and then her hand, where the gentle glow of the anchor lays. It makes her blink slowly, eyes studying her hand, the rune seared into it that now glows. What in the name of the Evanuris is going on?

“Let me see.” The demand clearly startles the bald and far too pale elf. He looks at her warily, and honestly, Alnirafenen can understand. She knows how her magic can destroy. He is likely worried over what will happen to him if he allows her in.

_“Let me see_.” She growls the words out and Solas, Solas, and Action, wince. She is no sweet wolf, she is as fierce as a lioness and he is in her territory. He is in her territory, where she is stronger, and he refuses her. With a sigh, Solas slinks closer to the bars, and her hand reaches out like a whip, clasping his in a death grip.

He has to grit his teeth and closes his eyes to deal with the way she tears into him. She is simply there, in his head, looking at all the strings that make his life, his life. The past, the could have been, the should have been, the mistakes – she pauses when she comes to herself. Those threads are plucked with a gentleness that soothes the ruthlessness from before. The children make her stop altogether, it is as if she stands before a painting, and reaches out to touch it but stops before her fingertips press against the paint.

All at once his hand is let go and those eyes are on him. Softer, confused, and studying his face with a scrutiny he isn’t sure he can withstand. She continues like that, looking at him, and her aura flairs, faltering for a few moments before it strengthens and she – she’s calling for someone? His head tilts, eyes narrowing, and they widen to saucers when he feels the veil give when he sees the amorphous form that slides into the Herald as if it is meant to be there.

She’d called a spirit, brought it into herself. Such a thing is highly dangerous for the spirit and for her with the world in its current state. His mouth is agape when pure silver eyes open and she stays silent. What is going on in her head? What is happening?

_Loyalty stands in the vast expanse that is the Commander’s mind. She has so many experiences, and so much trauma hidden away. This is not something Loyalty has much cause to practice, but, she glows so brightly and asked so politely, it had been hard pressed not to answer the call._

_‘I need the truth. I need to know if what I saw was real.’ The whispered request is more a question for Knowledge than Loyalty, but it persists in aiding her in whatever way it can. Taking her hand, it slips down the dark path of magic that should not linger in her. It is strong, it is stubborn, and it’s been etched into her over hundreds of years. The etchings are more like scars, and it makes the spirit pause._

_The woman barely notices, she doesn’t even flinch. Why should she? A different Loyalty has been within her, Acceptance as well, Duty, Diligence, Strength. All have slipped into this soul and yet, they leave a dark mark on her, as if those spirits hadn’t been quite what they’d been meant to be. This worries Loyalty. The time when spirits could continue to be spirits even twisted was long over. She does not taste of the past, and it baffles the spirit. Enough it calls for one of its fellows. They need all the help that can be found._

Solas leaves Jayla’s cell sometime later, retreating to the room he has shared with Fenris for some three days now. They are forming an odd sort of friendship. One built upon shared pain and rage. The rivalry is likely still there, under the surface, but Solas isn’t so sure it will come to the fore. Jayla is not herself. There are so many changes in her that it is hard to fathom that woman with curls that reach the small of her back, is the same woman who stole his heart. He knows there is a softness still in her, but to get to it would require Qunari explosive powder and the strength of ten magi blasting through her defenses.

That she’d called for a spirit after raking through his mind is worrying. Jayla knows better than that. It would seem Dirthamen took that from his heart as well. It terrifies him, that wherever, whenever, Jayla was in the timeline of Thedas, Dirthamen lived and commanded her. Had kidnapped her. He clearly was not dead in this eventuality either, for she called him traitor with such venom it physically pained him. What was the point of this? Of taking all the sweetness from the Herald and turning it into the diamond grit of a soldier. Why ruin the woman? Revenge? There could have been an element of that to it. But to teach her Elven, to make her common so heavily accented? So differently accented. To have her loyalties bound up so tightly when she was -is – bound to Action.

It shrieks of the Evanuris, but he thought, he remembered only Anduril being so underhanded and reckless. Dirthamen was more of the time biding sort. Had so many years of imprisonment changed the other General so completely? Or had she been sent so far forward in time, in the timeline where she did not close the Breach, that the time had been bided and she presented as the perfect tool? How much has she endured in that future? How long was she there? Three days for them, but how many for her?

“How is she,” Fenris is there at the top of the stairs, practically wringing his hands for news of Jayla. Solas can’t blame the young man after all had their situations been switched, he would be worried as well. To be attacked by your lover is a rather jarring event. That she had little idea who they were is worse. How they would get the woman they knew, and loved back is the biggest question they have to answer. The most immediate problem they have to solve.

“She is adrift. Where ever she was, whoever had her, took away the woman she was and replaced her.” He rubs his hands together before they fold behind his back. He feels tired and knows he must look it. “I don’t know how we will get through to her.”

“She should see Tara, Maël, and Delphine.”

“Absolutely not!” Solas’ eyes flash but Fenris stands firm. His eyes are sharp, lips pulled into a thin line.

“You want to get through to her? That is how you do it, old man. Those children – Jayla will do anything for them. If you want a mother to come back, you show her, her children, the ones who need - who needed her most.”

“She will raze this castle to the ground.”

“Maybe she should!” Fenris shouts, startling himself. He hadn’t thought he was so affected by the state of the children. He was wrong to think he was unmoved. “This place is drenched in blood, in children who would do anything for their parents. The boy – Connor, he treated with a demon to save his father. All six children did what they were told to do – and you know they were told that if they submitted they would see the two of you again. There is little sign of struggle on Tara, less on Maël and Delphine. They were coerced, lied to and would have been used for the most disgusting of purposes had we not come when we did! You’ve seen the lyrium exposed children, it will be a miracle if they –“

“Don’t!” Solas snaps, shoving the other man into the wall beside them. His hands are harsh and fisted in the thin cloth of the tunic. “Do not speak the possibility into the world, you fool. If they die, I put blame on your head.”

“Put it on the Templars! Not me. I did not walk away from them! I did not leave them vulnerable to attack! That was you and the good Commander Rutherford.” Fenris spits out the words, hurt driving the anger he feels. It’s a feeling he knows well. It is so much easier to be angry than it is to let out the pain.  That doesn’t shock him. He knows why he is this way.

What does shock him, is how broken Solas looks. The man is always sad, you can see it in the way he holds his mouth, in his eyes. His eyes glow with the sadness if you know how to spot it. Fenris being who he is, well, it would be harder for him not to see it.

“I know you are in pain, Mage. I can see it. Don’t make the mistake of not doing everything you can to save that woman. You’ve lost three children already –“

“We have not lost them!” Solas shouts again, and Fenris barely flinches.

“They are tranquil, Solas. None come back from that.”

“You don’t know that,” teeth are bared and Fenris holds up his hands in defeat. There has never been a tranquil returned to their previous self to his knowledge. It is the ultimate punishment and crime against a Mage.

“Solas.” Fenris gentles his voice, reaches to place his hands on the other man’s shoulders. “If there is a way to bring them back, I sincerely hope that it is found. But, it is a punishment the Chantry has levied upon Southern mages for centuries. If there was a way, do you not think it would have been found?”

“Humans are not all knowing, and the Chantry is almost exclusively human save that one dwarf in Orzammar who built a Chantry. How many of our people do you see swathed in chantry white or red? There is always a way to undo a magic wrought, we must simply find it.”

“Neither are we all knowing. I do not discourage you, but I ask you not lose sight of the Breach in this. This life is treacherous enough and complicated already, do not make it more so for yourself. Do not stretch yourself so thin it will lead to your death. You are needed here, as I hear it you are the only Fade expert we have, and the only one to calm the anchor in Jayla’s hand when this all started. Not just that, Mage, but she loves you damn it. Don’t do something stupid, or in your case, more stupid than you already have!”

“Gentleman.” Leliana’s silk smooth iced over tone pulls the elves apart. Neither noticed how close they were, but her eyes flashed with interest. There have been so many developments in the last handful of days. Had she been less than she is it might actually find it difficult to keep up with it all.

“Fenris has a sound idea. And your fears, Solas, are not unfounded. But the King will be here in a day’s time and we must know her mind on the mages. The King is set on sending them all out of the country, and if that comes to pass, they may be lost to Tevinter anyway, for the Orlesians and Free Marches certainly will not take them in. Rivain may take a few, but Antiva is a den of suspicion already, mages would be killed off as often as you or I take a breath. Contracts from the wealthy, from the disgruntled –“

“Fine.” Solas bites out the word, hands dropping from Fenris’ tunic. “I will bring the children to her.”

 

Alnirafenen stands pressed against the bars of her cell. The echoes of the fight had been muddled but not so much she couldn’t get the gist of what was being fought over. IT leaves her feeling as if she is covered in ice. Had someone made children Tranquil? This Jayla’s children were rendered soulless? Who would – why would anyone?

Sliding to the ground, her back against the bars, she draws wards on the ground around her. She needs information, she needs it now. Not even Dirthamen had been so cruel, and Banreas spoke of having his own in the near future to her whenever they were in private. What is happening in this blasted world?  She finishes the last rune, for sleep, and falls into the Fade.

The landing is a soft one, and it is in the Forest. A forest that feels familiar, but does not engender happiness in her. She’s wary of it, sliding into shadow, walking, looking for – something. Someone? Alnira walks with careful steps, her armor on her, daggers in her hands. She finds that odd, she hasn’t used daggers since taking her proper place at Banreas’ side as his second. Still, she doesn’t question it yet, just moves slowly through the undergrowth.

It feels so familiar and foreign at the same time that it turns her stomach. Only when a twig snaps does she stop. Her back is rigid, and silver-rimmed eyes take in the area. There is a woman, dark of hair, her skin dark, lips red – her. This is her.

Uneasily, Alnira watches the scene, dogs the woman’s steps as she runs. The Sentinel – it’s _real_ and it is one of Anduril’s. Anger roars through her veins, and this time, when the wolf shows up, when the ghost of herself is shot, her dagger sinks into the Sentinel’s chest. She knows the sound air makes when escaping a chest wound, and though there is no sound from the Sentinel’s fade based form, she knows the look of death when she sees it.

The memory, the echo within the world of dreams disintegrates. She’s changed it, it is no longer the memory of what happened. No matter, it told her only of what she feared. The wolf had been there, however, and that intrigues her. He stood over her as protector, rather than snapping her neck. Why? Why should she garner his protection when she stands beside his brother, working actively against him and his goals?

Again, Fenen shifts into the shadows and continues her walk through the Forest. Now, at least, she has an inkling of why it is familiar. A younger version of herself had walked this path. But why does the echo persist? Or is it truly her dream now? That is the greatest problem within the Fade if you are not careful you cannot tell dream from memory from reality. 

“Da’halla.” The word stops her dead in tracks, twisting sharply, daggers up in the space of a breath. Her mouth drops open, six red eyes regard her carefully.

“Wolf,” her guard stays up, even as she lowers her weapons. He is different than when she last saw him, this form, on the battlefield. There he had looked – fiercer. He had looked in control, confident, powerful. Here, he is practically a mabari hound in comparison. He is wary, she can tell, worried, pulled thin, distraught.

“You’ve been gone some time, da’halla.” The massive form of the wolf shifts so it is sitting, regarding her carefully still. “You know secrets now, you feel different. You were… Dirthamen took you?”

Her eyes blink rapidly. Took her? No, they had not – what? “I lay with no one.”

“That is _not_ what I meant.” He growls and looks agitated. “Dirthamen marked you as Commander of his forces. He made you a _slave_.”

She jerks back as if slapped. A slave? No! She was not a slave. She was free to do as she pleased. She had chosen her own food, her own quarters. She made the battle plans not Banreas. He never forced her to do any-

He had given her back her hearing, had he not? Her sight? Her magical ability. Her mouth thins. Someone _else_ had taken that from her! He was just making her better again. He had trained her, he had put her back to where she had been?

_Do we really know that?_ A small traitorous voice questions her and she growls, tossing her head to dislodge that thought. He had been good to her, kind. He had taken her from the darkness! She was loyal to him, she would not turn.

“You are fighting yourself, da’halla. Ask yourself why.”

“Shut up, Wolf.” She bears her teeth at him, eyes hard, even as her mind echoes his words. _Who had taken her senses, how had Banreas known to find her, where to find her. Why had she felt no rumble of battle? Why had there been no shaking of the walls?_

“Stop it!” She shakes her head, presses the heels of her hands against her temples.

“Please, _da’vhenan_ , do not fight yourself.” That damned wolf presses its nose against her neck, snuffling. It – He sounds sad. He feels sad. “You know me, you know yourself. Come back to me.”

“Dread wolf, be gone! Betrayer! Harellan!” She launches herself away from the wolf, watching the pain that lances through its form at her words. Alnirafenen turns her back on him, and runs for the waking world.

She jolts into the real world and shifts at the odd sensation. Waking never felt so jarring at Banreas’ side. She’d told the truth, he had not bedded her, but she shared his bed when he required, no – when he _asked_ it of her. Someone to sleep besides, to hold, had been comforting. Comfortable. But, and her nose wrinkles, she doesn’t remember desiring that from him. She wanted – stronger limbs than his had been. Banreas was willowy, as if he never built the muscle of a warrior or rogue.

He had relied solely upon his magic…

“Lady Shepard?” Alnirafenen whips around at the sound of a child’s voice. Umber eyes widen, the scream and surge of magic that follows, threatens to shake the keep down around the lot of them.


	52. We approach with heads held high

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> back at it again with the double updates

“King Alistair, I apologize for the state of things.” She stands at attention her head held high as the King comes into the courtyard near two weeks after her reappearance within Redcliffe Castle. Better, she hopes, to meet him here, then make him come into the throne room of his vassal’s castle as if he is to bend a knee to herself or the mages.

“As I hear it, you came to clean up the mess, several if the happenings of Therinfal Redoubt are to be believed.”

“Is that not the Inquisition’s purpose? To clean up the messes wrought on this world by those who would see it burn to the ground.” Alnira- Jayla – **_the Herald_** , because that’s all she is right now, a woman who is neither who she apparently was or who she’d become – speaks with every authority she can muster. She does not answer to this man, the Inquisition answers to no one. They make alliances. They operate outside the rest, an anomaly, alone, like a kingdom should.

“Yes…” The Warden-King looks at her carefully, the word drawn out as he stands before her. They are on equal footing, equal ground. He may have a foot or more on her, but he looks her in the eye, not down upon her. “It would seem we needed the Inquisition long before now. However, I come to deal with the Mages. They were offered asylum here, and to put it mildly they have taken advantage of us. That cannot continue.”

“Of course. I am prepared to take the mages of the Rebellion into the custody of the Inquisition. They will be conscripts until this debacle is dealt with and the Divine’s murderers brought to light. Should they not be implicated, they are welcome to formally join the ranks of the Inquisition. Others who wish to return home, well, I suppose it would be best if an agreement was hashed out during this meeting. I would not dream to speak for you in such matters of state.”

“Oh, but you speak so well, my Lady.”

“Not so well to be called, King, your Majesty.”  Her head tilts then, and she finds amusement in his face.

“You remind me of her. Come on then, let’s get this done. I have a wife to chase after, she’s ever so good at hiding, you see, and well –“

“The chase is exhilarating?” She turns on her heel as she gives him an option to not possibly air dirty laundry to the world at large. The Herald is gratified when he laughs, falling into step beside her. They walk together into the castle, where the rest of the Inquisition has gathered, where the mage-traitor is in chains, expectant faces to greet them.

“Your Majesty –“Fiona is there in a breath, looking far meeker than she had when the Herald had met her properly. Re-met, if the word of those around her are to be trusted.

“Fiona, you have caused quite a stir.”

She is content to step a half step behind the King for the moment as he does his duty. She watches with keen, narrowed eyes, the reaction of those around the room. Their fear is palpable, as is the pain of knowing what had been happening right beneath their noses.

A small, shamefully small considering the shack she’s been told of, group of Tranquil are present. The child who had been hers, three of them, front and center. Those eyes, she knows them, they had called her mama, she loved them. Though she cannot truly remember loving them, taking them in, there is no doubt inside her that she had loved them. Each had been so vibrant in the memories she has found of them within the Fade, so perfect in their own way as they had played in the cabin she kept with Fen'Harel of all people. Now they are dull, a hole where their souls should be. It makes her fingers curl into fists as the King continues his meeting. She does not pay attention, truly pay attention, until there is a soft outcry from the room. It’s then she steps forward to his left.

“The King is well within his rights to make such a decree. You allowed an enemy nation’s agent to oust the sitting lord here. You all are complicit in this crime. The Inquisition will not overlook this crime, nor will we abandon you. You will not be free in the strictest sense, you will be conscripted into our forces, those of you who are versed and of an age to be able to fight. Those who are too young, too old, or not versed in offensive magics will be assigned to tasks best suited to your talents. There will be no shackles, no use of mage bane or Templar talents unless there is a threat to a life. But, you will not leave the Inquisition until it is clear who is responsible for the demise of the Divine. This is a better deal than being banished and separated to the four winds.” Taking a breath, she can feel the irritation flowing off the Tevinter magi – Dorian, and the elder mage, what was had he said his _preferred_ name while here in the waking world was? Solas? Yes. Solas.

“When that is all complete you will be given a choice, your wages will be given to you, and you may leave the Inquisition, or you may stay as paid, active members.”

“We accept.” Fiona cuts her off, face stony in her resolve. “All of us, we all accept the terms. It is a fairer deal than we perhaps deserve after all that has transpired here.”

With a curt nod, the Herald turns to the King, a light polite smile on her lips. “It would seem we have some legal work to do, Majesty. As the Inquisition is settled in the Frostbacks and clearly on Ferelden’s side, there are some things that we must put in writing, no?”

“Smart woman, heading off issues at the pass.” He smirks, and her estimation of him ratchets up several degrees. “The Nobles already have an issue with Haven having become the Inquisition’s home base. We need wine, some very good cheese, and a Raven sent out to Arl Teagan. It shouldn’t be more than a few days to get this properly sorted.”

“One can only hope, Majesty.”

 

It is a week and a half, all told, before the Mages were set upon the road to Haven, with the official Inquisition party traveling after them. The Herald, Alnira, as most were reluctantly calling her, at the head of the procession, dead on her feet as they ride, even two days out from Redcliffe. She’s exhausted, the negotiations had been rather intense, for what they were.

She had leased the Ferelden side of the Frostback mountain range, for all intents and purposes. No money would be exchanging hands, not until they had the means, but the lease was legal and binding. For the moment, payment for the land was being taken as the conscription and removal of the rebel mages from Redcliffe and thwarting of the Tevinter plot. It would keep the mouthier nobles at bay, and the legalese protected them. She was, as the Herald, the named Leaseholder of Haven now. Her face was the Inquisition, and now the Inquisition _is_ her.

“You’re going to fall off your horse if you continue like this.” The elven man, Fenris, who had fought her so hard, is beside her. She sees care in his eyes every time he looks at her, worry as well.  “After everything you’ve done, you have yet to properly rest.”

“I am aware of who you believe me to be, Fenris, but –“

  
“Don’t,” he bites out the words, cheeks ruddy with his sudden irritation. “You may not yet have recovered your memory, but I know who you are.”

Alnira shakes her head, sighing heavily as she faces forward and nudges her horse to canter ahead. She can’t stay beside him if he continually brought up who she is supposed to be. The bald one has all but given up on speaking the name of the woman she visibly resembled. It was, is, quite sad, really. Both men quite clearly love the woman, and that woman’s children. The children who are slowly dying. The children whose souls have been cut from the Fade and their minds reduced to the simplest forms.

 She must fix it, she will fix it, but it will take time. Time she seemingly does not have, her left-hand lifts from the reigns of her horse, and she peers at the rune that will crackle and spill green light whenever they near a tear in the veil. The spell that has laid dormant in her hand for what feels like centuries. She had never marked years once she’d become Commander, there was little point in it. Why mark down the days and years when you lived in a state of battle planning and the battle itself? Why plan years in advance when tomorrow was the most important day to worry about?

But now that she is here, she must plan, she must look at the days and weeks and months to figure out how best to survive this. How best to make sure her children survive it? Those that have been poisoned with the sick lyrium need her to find a way to cure it. The people currently conscripted into the service of the Inquisition needed to be exonerated and set free once more. The Inquisition needed to find proof of the monster who had ripped open the sky and killed the Divine to do so. So many needs weighing on her shoulders. So little time to see to them all.

She can feel the magic in her hand sinking into her bones, and it feels as if it may corrupt her. How long before it does? Or worse, how long before she is consumed by this supposed blessing? Is she to be a martyr for these people?

Was she supposed to have been a martyr for Banreas?

“Your mind is a thousand leagues away from us, Dalen.” That measured cadence and low smooth tone rip her from increasingly melancholy thoughts. Fatalistic, perhaps, would be the best way to describe her mind now. Or perhaps simply more aware of her own mortality. If she can claim any of it for herself any longer. There are many questions swirling around her mind. None of which she will find the answer to instantly. Perhaps ever. A vexing thought, just as this is a vexing situation.

“I apologize, Ha’hren.” The title slips from her without her permission, and she watches from her periphery as Solas pales. His freckles stand out in stark relief against his pallid skin. Such a look doesn’t suit him, but it isn’t as if she can fix what she’s said.

“I don’t believe I have ever been your, Ha’hren, Lady Herald.”

“Weren’t you?” She quirks her head, genuinely curious. He was the studious sort for all he is a trickster and Dreamer, and the storyteller had said they were quite close when she first came to be in Thedas.

“I was not. I cannot claim to be an elder or teacher to a woman who needed only guidance with her magic.” His jaw ticks. Her eyes narrow. There is more than what he is saying. All of them dance around her and her supposed amnesia. All of them keep secrets of her supposed life from her. How is she to trust any of them when they clearly do not trust her. What great awful thing had she done before being sent to Banreas’ side? What evils had she wrought that they must now hide them from her?

She sucks in a deep breath through her nose and lets it out slowly. She’d get to the bottom of this, all of this, sooner or later. Sooner rather than later if she gets her way. This treatment reminds her far too much of the dark days. The days she could not see, hear, taste, smell nor feel anything. When she’d been hand fed and led where she had needed to go.

Alnira is not one to be led anywhere. She leads.

The gates of Haven loom, and with them comes a sense of home. It’s a startling feeling, and Jayla slows her horse in response. Alien feeling. She doesn’t know what to make of this. A small snow-covered town is her home? She looks at the road and it is familiar. She eyes the gates and knows each knot in the wood. The guard’s faces are even familiar. Such realizations are disquieting to say the very lead, but instead of turning tail and running, the Herald pushes forward. Too little time to run. Too little time to ponder the ramifications of why these places and people are so familiar and evoke such a strong reaction from her.

 

“Lady Herald.” A man with burnished gold hair greets her at the stables, his great mane framing face, throwing concern into stark relief that makes Alnira blink slowly. Shaking her head, she dismounts, and walks her mount into it’s stall. “It is good to see you were recovered from wherever the Magister sent you.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” She speaks slowly, reaching out with her aura to get a sense of this man. There is something strange about him, something just left of center that she must figure out. “I was informed by the Spy Master you had recovered the other three children?” He – the Commander, had left the same day she apparently was ‘returned’ to her ‘proper’ time. Alnira can’t blame him for having retreated, she remembers the fight with Fenris, remembers it was him who stole her last reserves of mana that day.

His eyes leave hers as she asks, and Jayla’s heart plummets. That could not be good. She gets the sense that this man didn’t shy away from hard decisions or information. She turns back to her mount, removing the tack and saddle methodically, hanging her bags on the stall door. Alnira will simply wait out his distress. It was the only thing she could do.

“Yes, we did recover the children, but they are not well. Poisoned by the red lyrium. From what we can tell, it is a proximity poisoning and not ingestion. The healers have been looking over them every moment they can.” Her heart clenches. Tainted lyrium.

“I am familiar with the blighted liquid.” She growls the words, handing off her mount to the stable hand, slinging her bags over her shoulder and stalking from the pen. The Commander follows behind her, steps sure, but shorter than his height should allow.

“I am sorry, my lady, that we didn’t – “

“You saved them at all, Commander, and for that I am grateful. You can’t have known what the Templars would do to them, nor an Envy demon. We should all be glad they are not possessed or worse at this juncture.” She speaks in clipped tones, moving through the smithy, pausing by Harritt, speaking with him in low tones before handing over her armor and weapons almost reluctantly.

It is a sight to see, the armor she claims as her own. He’s never seen it’s equal, and Cullen has seen many a suit of armor. This is thin, but elegant and etched with runes on the inside of her breastplate. He imagines the runes must be throughout the set, but he doesn’t see the inside of her arm or leg guards as she carefully piles the armor on the workbench.

She moves differently now, the Lady Jayla. From what Leliana has said, she went through a great ordeal, and the silver etchings in her skin likely as traumatic as Fenris’ had been. Worse, because of the fine rings around her irises. One wrong move, and the woman would have been blinded. One wrong move, and the one woman who could save the world would have been rendered an invalid.

He shakes his head as she moves out of the smithy, trailing behind her. “If I may, my lady, it is good to see you back. We were, all of us there in Redcliffe, worried you would not be recovered.”

“Thank you, Commander.” She speaks in a cool tone and does not pause for longer than it takes to look at him. She doesn’t say more than that. There is no ‘it’s good to be back, or I am glad to be back amongst friends,’ because she cannot say that truthfully. Alnira is confused about this entire affair, her place here, is obvious, but her place _there_ had also been without reproach. No one could argue she didn’t belong. At least no one had within her earshot.

Her boots crunch gently in fresh snow as she makes her way into the town proper. She needn’t ask where to go, her body propels her forward. The need for directions was never there. She knows where home is.

 

“Mamae!” a soft chorus of six strong and three-week voices greet her, and the unmistakable presence of two men as well. Solas and Fenris must have finished their chores earlier than she had, held up by the small conversation with the Commander. That, or they hadn’t seen to their own horses, nor dropped off their armor for repairs. Her eyes narrow and sweep over them, finding them dusty from the ride, packs still full beside the hearth.

“ _Dalen, ma’vhenan shathe itha’ma.”_ She greets them without thinking, elven dropping from her lips without a single hitch in her cadence. It is her first language now, but not the children’s. They look at her with wide cat like eyes, and she blinks slowly.

“ _Ahn del_?”

“ _Vhenan_ – My lady -,” Solas comes from the kitchen, and the name he gives her stops her heart, unfamiliar pain lancing through her. “The children do not know elven as you and I do. Even Fenris is not well versed in it.”

“That doesn’t make sense, it’s their language.” Her reply is sharp, eyes sharper as she takes in the other mage.

“There is much you will have to relearn it seems, my lady. This sad fact one of many. Not all elven children are taught spoken elven, less the written, and it is not with the fluency you or I possess.”  His hand curls around her wrist, tugging her gently away from the kids toward the kitchen. Toward him and Fenris.  

“Why don’t they know their own language?” She whispers harshly, knowing that this would upset the children if it hadn’t already. It’s just an instinct, just something she knows. It should confuse her, and yet it does not. She simply goes with the feeling, simply moves with that gut direction.

“Because the elvhen have been subjugated for centuries, vh- dalen.” Solas sighs, a hand tucking under his chin, elbow balanced on his other arm.

“I know Tevene better than I know elvhen.” Fenris admits it with a shrug, with a nonchalance that disturbs Alnira.

“The enemy’s language.” She speaks slowly, clearly trying to be cautious. “You are a _sentinel_ and you – you speak the enemies language better than your own?!”  Her disbelief is palpable and Fenris clenches his teeth together to keep from snapping at the small human woman in front of them. It would seem, her time away from them, had dulled her tolerances. Or perhaps exacerbated them in some negative fashion. Whatever the cause, the reason, Fenris isn’t sure he likes tis new Jayla before him.

“He was a slave, Vhenan. Is mother and sister also slaves. You cannot blame him for this.”

“I don’t. I don’t blame him, I – I’m human and yet I know your language better than those that should. That isn’t right This is not how it should be.” She shakes her head and her fingers pull at the curls loose around her shoulder.  Her anger is surprising to both men and they both move to sooth her, two pairs of hands settling on her skin.

She lets out a breath that she didn’t realize she’d been holding. That felt – right. This is true calm. There is no underlying roil of readiness to spring into action. It lays dormant. Her mind is quiet, a murmur compared to a cacophony of thoughts and worries. If she weren’t so relaxed under the dual touch, she might be startled. She should be startled to be comforted by a man who had been a slave and Fen’Harel himself. Harallen – he is a traitor -

 _Walk the right path_.

The whisper jolts her eyes open, heart thudding hard in her chest. Who was that? _What_ was that? Walk the right path? The whisper had been warm, familiar, comforting, not quite like their hands on her, but similar. Familial rather than what their touch evokes deep down inside her. There is a resonance. Something she should know but can’t remember.

She looks at concerned faces and it’s back. That whisper. Walk the right path. Storm blue eyes, Glass green. Dueling pale and bronze. She shakes her head, curls swishing softly behind her. Walk the right path. What path?

“Amatus? Are you all right?” Her heart feels like it might burst from her chest. _Amatus_ , _Vhenan_.

“I’m fine.” She replies quietly, mind again a swirl of thoughts and confusion. “I should – I should see to the children.”

Alnira removes herself from their hold, ignores the eyes on her back, and goes back to the children, just a dozen feet away. This place is strange to her, wrong, and yet. Her head turns, watching for a moment the elder and younger man turn toward one another, brows furrowed.

_And yet._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dalen, ma'vhenan, shathe itha'ma - Little one, my heart, I am glad to see you well (approximately)  
> Ahn Del? - What's wrong?
> 
> Okay, so there are two chapters to this part of Jayla's story left. I'm breaking it into two parts for all of our sanity. This has taken on a life of it's own and shows no signs of slowing down.


	53. We descend with swords at the ready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In your heart shall burn - End Part I

The next morning, once the Senior Mages and Templars have rested, Alnira decides it’s time to go up the mountain.  It’s time to deal with the rip leaking the Fade into a world clearly unready for it. She’d spent the night traveling the Fade, walking with her spirits, or near them at least. Command still shuns her, Knowledge whispers sadly at her heels.  But neither join with her. Neither bathes her in their presence. It hurts.

But she’d learned, in that solitary travel. She’d watched memories, listened to the distress of the mages within Haven, and warded their dream spaces. This place, time, it feared the Fade. The mages have been abused, been made to abuse their own. There is no equality here. There is no healthy comradery like there was within the ranks of Banreas. Of course, that had been different than this. There was no mingling of races there. She had been the only human. Still, the feeling of brotherhood there and the forcible us against them that permeates the mages here are at opposite ends of the same spectrum.

The Veil stays. It would be folly to allow the Breach to stay there, to allow any rift to stay. It is only a danger to the less experienced and unprepared people of this time. A dark, insidious voice in her wonders if these people would ever be ready for a life without the Veil.

The climb to the ruined temple is silent save for soft whispers at the now frozen carnage left behind by a battle fought months ago. She doesn’t know if she was a part of it but imagines she had to have been here. She is the one with the key, she is the one who had to have deactivated the Breach. No one speaks to her of it, however, and Alnira supposes that is for the best. What is there to say about a battle long over?

When they reach the basin, Solas and Cassandra pull up level to her. In the background, she can hear Fiona and a man speaking to their respective parties. The shuffle of feet on dust-covered obsidian fills the air, the feeling of being surrounded washes over her.  The rune on her palm breaks open, magic crackling over her skin, through her bone and soul. Her eyes lift to the Breach above.

“This is where it all started.” Solas is there, cadence even as ever, voice pitched low. “This is the cataclysm that began our mad adventure.”

“Do you think it will end, said mad adventure?” Alnira knows the answer but asks the question all the same. She wants to know if this man is naive, or if he is battle worn. Appearances can be terribly deceiving.

“We have a long road to travel yet. This is but a stop along the path we’ve been set upon.”

Satisfaction flows through her. Battle-worn, he had spoken without hesitation. He knows this dance, these steps. She wonders what he has seen and done in his life. Much like she wonders about the shadow at that comes up behind her, lyrium in her skin calling to the lines in his.

“Everything ending now would be far too easy.”

“Indeed.”

Cassandra pulls up to them once more, her eyes heavy, shoulders tense. There is an unspoken ‘they are ready’ that passes between the two women and Alnira nods, hand lift as she peers at it before she approaches the Breach. She moves to stand directly under it, or as best as she can fathom she is.  When she is near enough, she can feel it, the call to the Fade, the whispers of what lay beyond it. She is bathed in green light, and it feels as if she is wading through sand.

Solas retreats with Cassandra and she hears them start to speak.

“Mages, Templars!”

“Focus past the Herald, let her will draw from you.”

The pain is exquisite, and it is not just limited to the static pulse within her arm this time. Jolts of pain hit here, as she lifts her hand. There has been no instruction on what to do here. But, Alnira knows, her body and magic know. Lift her hand, connect to the rift – draw from those surrounding her.

“Now!”

A chorus of staves and swords hitting the ground sound, and she is hit by their auras. It is – intoxicating, terrifying, amazing. There is so much magic reaching out to her, tangling in her own as she pulls it all near her, shoves it into the mark. The connection is strange, like a pull behind her navel, a magical umbilical cord. The Breach devours energy, and her hand curls and tries to tug the door closed. It won’t go.

Grimacing, Alnira pulls again, and again, takes the will and power of those behind her to fuel her own. It isn’t until Lyrium ignites at her side, and a hand slides into hers, slides into  _her_ , that clarity comes. Her hand flings out, grabs and  **pulls**  at the massive door, pulls and pulls until with a cry from her, it slams shut once more.

The resulting shock sends them all tripping backward, and Fenris curls around her, expecting an attack of some sort. When none comes, he moves away, looking to the sky warily before getting completely off of her and offering her a hand up.  Cassandra and Solas are there at her side moments after, hands clapping her on the back, cheers rising around them.

“It’s closed, praise the Maker!”

Her head shakes, eyes on the scar above them. “Let’s go home, shall we?”  The wording of her statement escapes her, as does the fact she is holding hands with Fenris, leaning tiredly against Solas. Blue and Green eyes meet, a wordless conversation occurring over the short woman’s head before they turn her, together, toward the exit.

Her eyes drop, widening at the black beneath her feet. An uneasy feeling settles in her gut. Something wicked was at their heels.

Haven is a riot with activity when the group returns to the gates. Cheers go up at the sight of her, a mass of people crowding around her, hands touching her hair, her shoulders, back, neck, legs, and arms. Her chest seizes, eyes wild as the desire to attack, to retreat, to get away threatens to overwhelm her. Murmurs of blessed be, and bless the Maker’s herald, drown out all other noise until a new swarm of bodies moves into the crowd, cutting it off from her.

“All right, that’s enough!” The Golden Commander is there, at her right, face stern. “The Herald is going to her home to rest!”

“You heard the man, she’s not to be bothered.” The Qunari at her front thunders, stance wide, arms at his side.

“Nothing to see here, we’ll all meet for drinks later, at the Maiden.”

“Get lost you tossers!”

Her eyes water and her heart threatens to burst with the feeling that swirls in her chest. These people; they were caring for her. They were here for her. Alnira cannot fathom it. Her soldiers had been loyal to Banreas, Dirthamen, not her. They respected her, but it was nothing like this. Never anything close to this. Her vision swims.

The feeling of finality and home drowns her. This is where she belonged. Even if it screams wrong at her, even if there is less of a purpose here than there had been on the battlefields in Banreas’ name. This is her place. Where she is needed most.

Four hands guide her home, up well-worn pathways and through the snowy trees. Twelve tiny hands clamber for her, and twelve more do not.  She hits the bed with a sigh, and two taller bodies bracket her, two arms lay over her. Sleep has never come so easy as it does to her at that moment. The Fade is silent, tranquil and Knowledge whispers past her, flits about in the form of a wisp, playing for the first time in some three hundred years.

 

“We should have a party tonight. The rest of the Mages arrived yesterday night, it would be the perfect way to open the next chapter of the Inquisition now that the Breech has been sealed.” Josephine is all smiles this morning, walking with the other councilors and Alnira through the slowly waking town. “As it was, the Singing Maiden was packed to the brim last night, soldiers, templars, and mage alike drinking to the health of our own Herald. Surely –“

“We should celebrate.” Alnira butts in quietly, startling the tanned woman into silence. “Yesterday was a victory, and tomorrow may be a battle. While there is silence, it would be best to give the people a moment of joy.”

“We have all earned it,” the Seeker ventures, solemn as ever.

“It would do well to praise those who have fallen and those who yet live on in service to the Inquisition.”

“The soldiers could certainly use a night of frivolity.”

The chorus of agreement makes Alnira smile, truly smile, for the first time since she had come to Redcliffe. They were a team, the five of them, and these their people. It was nice to work in concert with others like this, rather than to take orders. Rather than to ferry orders from her Lord to those underlings beneath her.

“Then it’s settled. Tonight, we will celebrate, and tomorrow we brace for war. No doubt whoever made the Breach, who ordered the tranquility and poisoning of children, will not be pleased with what we have accomplished. Leliana, bring in your people for the night.”

“I don’t think that’s wise, my Lady.”

“Then at least trade them out. How long have those scouts been out?” Umber eyes cut to sharp hazel and the elder woman nods, a small smile touching her unusual berry lips.

“Of course, my lady, I will send the Ravens and replacements now.”

“Commander –“

“The guards will be changed, my lady.”

“Josephine, the servants, they deserve –“

“Oh yes! I’ll give them all a half day, so we may prepare for the festivities and they might enjoy them as well.”

And then, in a matter of moments, it is only Cassandra and Alnira. They look at one another and chuckle. “Ser Cassandra, would you fancy a bit of a spar?”

“I thought you would never ask.”

 

Cassandra has never,  _never_  seen a mage move like Jayla does. She bears twin swords as if she were born to them, and moves like the best rogue, all smooth grace, and deadly aim, yet just below her skin, Cassandra knows magic is lurking there. A magic that surges and wanes as they connect blades and trade blows but never manifests.

The young woman from Earth has always been a bit of an enigma. The first day she had killed is still etched within the Seeker’s mind. Her distress, her horror, the way she could never simply bring herself to make a killing blow until she was forced to do it. That woman is gone. This woman, this Alnira who rests inside Jayla’s skin, is a warrior, a soldier who is not unfamiliar with killing because she must. This woman knows how to bide her time, to wait for the opening to strike.

They dance around one another, blades and shield flashing in the morning sunlight. Clash, parry, dodge, lunge, sidestep, twist, clash, counter, block. They kick up dust and dirt, eyes only on one another as the sun climbs steadily higher into the morning sky. They both breath heavily and neither backs down, neither shows how tired they are becoming, neither notices the crowd they are gathering either.

 

“Looks like the Herald won’t be needing lessons anymore,” Talon remarks with an almost sad smile as they watch the spar unfolding before them.

“Indeed, it does not.” Solas muses, eyes following the fight with interest. Jayla – Alnira – has not yet pulled out a single sentinel move, sticking to basic swordplay. He is surprised, lips thinning with curiosity. Dirthamen was not known for bold moves, but even Banreas was known for a little showmanship. Especially where his sentinels were concerned.

But Jayla hasn’t used a single flourish, she hasn’t unleashed one complicated series of attacks that would surely win the bout. Instead, she’s kept herself on at the same level with Cassandra. The swordplay is equal, their tactics are similar. Jayla is following the Seeker’s lead, rather than leading the fight herself. He hasn’t seen any Sentinel do that, ever. The generals, himself included, had always taught their soldiers to take advantage whenever and wherever possible.

Banreas was perhaps the worst about teaching such a tactic. Of all of them, the Secret Keeper used the dirtiest tactics, drilled his sentinels the hardest, was the most unforgiving of mistakes. No doubt he had been hard on Jayla for her to have his silvered markings on her skin. So this is truly baffling. Even a practice fight should garner her full range of ability, she should want to prove herself.  Should need to do so.

“Do you think she’ll regain her memories?” The low voice of Fenris jars Solas from his thoughts. He cannot believe he shared their bed last night still, nor can he ignore the way they all gravitate around one another in the house since Jayla came back to them. It’s not something he expected, and something he would very much like to walk away from.

“I cannot say. She naturally seems to do things. Like this spar. She should have had Cassandra in the dust a dozen times over by now. I’ve seen Sentinel training, the guards, and soldiers of the Creators. They were made to be ruthless, exacting, tactically superior to all other soldiers.”

“They seem evenly matched.”

“Yes. And it should not be so.”  Solas speaks lowly so only the other man might hear him. “In the Fade, Sentinels were shown to be three times as graceful, as ruthless, as calculating as any Seeker. Jayla is said to be a Commander from the markings on her, so she should be  _more_  than any Sentinel. Unless she showed some other talent that placed her far above physical expectation.” And isn’t that a worrisome thought? Dirthamen would have stolen Jayla away so quickly no one would have seen her for blinking if that were the case. He had ever been covetous of talents, always wanted them to surround him.

Falon’din had been similar, if to a lesser degree. Fascinated with death, that twin at least waited for the talented to pass on into the Fade, plucking them from their journeys to the beyond. It wasn’t much better, but it didn’t lead to the abundance of theft and coercion that Dirthamen’s appetite did. Solas can’t recall how many times Dirthamen and Sylaise or even June came to blows over his taking of one of their devoted. Anduril had nearly killed him, it sparked the first war and the first downfall of Falon’din.

He shakes away the memories and sighs. “Best we not dwell on what exactly made our Herald this way. Come, let’s go see to the children, it is almost the noon meal, and their lessons with Josephine will be ending soon.”

 

As night falls, Alnira emerges from the cabin that held her slumbering children fresh from a bath, hair braided, set around her head like a halo, cheeks pink from the water’s heat and now the chill of the air. Her armor is on, this may be a party, but it is a military victory they’re celebrating. She would look the part and steal away to sleep when the opportunity presented itself.

Her boots crunch in the snow, and the sharp fresh quality of the air makes her smile. Here in there little hide away the air is fresher. Much as she loved the town, the latrines were awful on the southernmost edge of town. As she walks for the great bonfire in front of the chantry, she can already hear the singing and music. The party was in full swing, and the last bell of the workday had yet to be rung.

It makes her smile, to know the town has come together. She’d noted, once her spar was done, some tension here and again. The mages and elven people regarded her warmly, while some of the humans and templars turned a wary eye on her. It makes her momentarily frustrated, she can’t remember what caused such looks or respect. It would help if she could. But all she remembers is the first whispers she’d heard after a long time of hearing nothing, not truly hearing. Feeling a spirit speak is different than listening to another physical being.

When she was at Banreas’ side, that fact had never bothered her, or perhaps she had not allowed it to. But now, surrounded by the warmth of people who equate home, of people who regard her as a friend, the lack of her memory bothers her. Her hands clasped behind her as she breaks the tree line beside the chantry.  The bonfire is bright, and couples are swinging one another round in a merry dance. It isn’t one she’s familiar with.

The music makes her muscles bunch and release, body remembering things she does not. Her lips thin before the first well wisher reaches her, and she wipes the expression of irritation from her face. Each face is as joyful as the last, each a little rosier cheeked than the last as she comes closer to the inner circle and councilors.

“Some party,” Sera winks before looking around as Jayla approaches them. “All the girls in their finery. Did ya see that mercenary over at the smaller fire? Phwoar, she’s got a set of legs.”

“Must you be so crass, da’len?” Solas sighs as Vivienne wrinkles her nose in distaste. Likely from agreeing with Solas and Sera’s lack of decorum.

“As much as it pains me to admit, Solas is right Sera. Though I see you managed to find a tunic without some unidentifiable stain on it. Bravo, my girl. We may make you a presentable part of society yet.”

The bickering makes Alnira laugh, so soft twinkling sound that is foreign to her own ears and stops them all dead. Several gazes wash over her, and Alnira simply shrugs before eyeing Cassandra and jerking her head to the side. “Cassandra, walk with me?”

Together they walk the innermost part of the town. It’s a patrol of sorts, and on the way they locate Adan drinking quietly with Mineve at his cabin, Varric telling tall tales in the singing maiden. By the time they come back to the fire their group has splintered, Dorian lingering, dancing with a young woman who is fair of face and has hair that fairly sparkles in the firelight.

After some time of companionable silence, Cassandra breaks it. “Solas has confirmed the heavens are scarred but calm. The Breach is sealed. However, with reports of lingering rifts, many questions remain, but, yesterday was a victory. Word of your heroism spreads.”

“No doubt aided by our lovely Ambassador and Spy Master,” Alnira chuckles, head shaking lightly. “You know better than I, Cassandra, how many were involved. It seems luck put me at the center.”

“A strange kind of luck,” Cassandra remarks with a raised brow, her tone flat. “I’m not sure if we need more or less of it. But, you’re right, this was a victory of alliance, one of the  _few_  in recent memory.” Her eyes sweep across the revelers and lands back on Alnira, still fierce as ever, though much more rested then when Alnira had first laid eyes upon her. “With the Breach closed, that alliance will need a new focus, we –“

Whatever Cassandra had been primed to say is cut off by the distant sound of an alarm bell being run. And seconds later a much closer echo of it. All at once the bubble of calm that had descended on Haven breaks, and soldiers scramble, the Commander is seen moving quickly through the town. “Forces approaching! To arms!”

Alnira can already see panic rising in the non-combatants. “Go to the chantry! It may be nothing more than a false alarm.” Her voice rings loud in the square, and there are murmurs, but the elders move quickly, gathering up the younger ones and shooing them toward the chantry proper.  

“We must get to the gate,” Cassandra is shocked, it reads in the tone of her choice, the subtle wideness of her eyes. The Herald feels the same. An attack? Now? She spots Fenris and runs to him, her hand grabbing his arm.

“Fen – get the children to the chantry.” There is a prickle of fear on the back of her neck. It’s dusk now, there is a chance, a small one, that this is just a false alarm, but she won’t put the children in danger for a chance. Only when he rushes toward their home, does the Herald rush after Cassandra to the Gates of Haven.

The Iron Bull falls into step beside her. “So, Celebratory drinks are on hold, eh boss?”

“Seems that way,” she sighs, picking up the pace. She makes it to the gates within seconds of Cassandra.

“Cullen?”

“One watch guard reporting – it’s a massive force, the bulk still over the mountain.”

“Under what banner?” The gentle question makes Jayla’s head snap to the side, what on earth is Josephine doing here? She isn’t a fighter.

“None.”

“None?” Her disbelief is echoed in the Herald who nears the gate. There is – something, to this. Something she can’t put her finger on. Dread like she’s not felt snaps at her heels, creeps up her spine. No banner, no enemy to name. The void of her memory shudders. This means something.

The sound of boots beyond the great gate make her edge nearer, swords coming unsheathed when there is a racket, the unmistakable sound of a blade sliding into something soft. It draws her up short, even more so when a voice calls through the door.

“I can’t come in unless you open.”  There’s something in that voice. Something underneath the tone, something she feels. She moves forward and pushes open one of the doors and is greeted with a warrior dropping to his knees, a young boy – well, teenager, is left standing.

“I’m Cole, I came to warn you, to help! People are coming to hurt you,” he darts closer to her, and Alnira blinks, leaning slightly away. “You, probably already noticed this.”

“What, exactly is happening here?”

“Templars come to kill you, Mages come to kill you.”

“Templars? Mages?!” The Commander barks, coming up beside her, around her aggressively pacing to and fro eyes on the boy. “Is this how the rest of the Order and Rebellion respond to our conscription of their Ferelden fellows, just attacking us blindly?”

“The Red Templars and Venatori went to the Elder One.” There is an otherness to this boy that makes Alnira listen hard. Elder one?  _Corypheus_. He was there, whenever she had been when she’d been with Banreas.  “He knows you, you know him. You took the bulk of his mages, his Templars.”

She watches as he stiffens, and she does as well already knowing what has made him do so. That sick aura blankets the valley. She had felt it only a handful of times before, stronger, much stronger, but still it is enough to make her stomach roll and her throat work as if to heave.

“There –“  the pale young rogue points, and like they had been summoned, Corypheus and his right hand come into view. Sickly the both of them, corrupted, the both of them. “He’s very angry you took his army.”

“He means to kill us all.” She doesn’t realize she’s spoken until Cullen clears his throat.

“Haven is no fortress, the only way we survive this – “

“Is to keep the tide in our favor.” Alnira steps forward, eyes hard. “Our siege weaponry needs to be kept clear, the mages can provide cover fire from inside Haven’s walls, the Templars, and Inquisition Infantry will take the brunt of the force. Leliana!”

She needn’t have yelled, the Sister is there, silent as ever eyes glittering with worry in the dark. “Your people, all the combat experienced will flank either side, the ones who aren’t combat experienced I want them getting everyone to the Chantry, it is the most fortified place in Haven. We lose no one to that monster.”

No one questions her, but no one moves for a moment. “Move! NOW!” She barks the orders and Cullen turns.

“Mages! You have sanction to engage within Haven’s walls, that is Samson, he will not make it easy. Templars, time smites carefully, this is a mixed foe we face. Inquisition! For your Herald, for your lives, we fight for all of us!”  It is a rousing speech and cheers go up before the mad scramble begins.

Alnira is there within her circle in seconds, the boy with her. She doesn’t remember moving. It doesn’t matter now. “We split into teams, Blackwall, Sera, Vivienne, Cassandra take the middle trebuchet, keep the smithy and stable safe until all are out and the trebuchet has started firing. Bull, Solas, Varric, with me, we take the far trebuchet if we can. Dorian, Fenris,” her hand lays on the shoulder of the rogue and she  _knows_ can feel it, “you and this rogue take this trebuchet, we do not let those bastards take any that we can save.”

A chorus of agreement goes up around her before the teams break off and Jayla starts forward again. The boy is beside her once more, before she is out of his zone of duty. “You know me.”

“I know you.”

“You’re different.”

“You have no idea,” with a smirk, the Herald leads her party forward and meets the forces of the Elder one head on. There is no time to pity the men and women who have become creatures, nor mourn the choices the mages made to side with a monster. Her people need her, her children’s lives depend on her not falling here.

Her swords sing as she moves, lighting up the night with spells that run along the edges. Her magic is strange as it ever was, and never wanes. That at least eases some of Solas’ misgivings about this battle. The damned monster wanted Jayla’s rune. That was the key to this mad plan of his. Mad only because he seeks godhood. Solas berates himself as he fires off spell after spell. Varric stands beside him, the two of them advancing as the rear guard to Jayla and the Iron Bull. Both of whom slice and smash their enemies ruthlessly.

Earlier he had wondered where the flare of a Sentinel was within her movements. Now he sees it in every measured breath she takes. Her body and magic are in tune with one another in a way only the oldest of the People know. She disappears only to reappear spell on her fingertips, swords taking heads. It’s beautiful, and a grim sight.

He remembers the young dancer from months ago. It feels like a lifetime still, the first real fight she took part in. There is no trace of that young woman in this Commander, this General who wields every gift she has in the deadliest of dances. It takes them what feels like ages to get to the third trebuchet, staying by the smithy and second team to keep them from being overrun, while listening to the sounds of the third crew dying.

Alnira rips through her enemies, sorrow for the fallen fueling her. Rage will make her sloppy. She knows that all too well. Sorrow tempers her. But duty keeps her focus sharp. She draws energy from the world around her without giving it a thought falling into old habits, throws spell after spell, losing count of the people who fall in her path.

When they make it to the third and last trebuchet, there is no crew to man it. They lay dead, abominations and corrupted templar milling around. Without a word, the four all fall into place, Alnira slips into the veil and shadow, Bull charges, Solas and Varric provide cover as she flings herself out and into the battle. It is shorter than anticipated, but they all feel the wear of fighting so many in such a short time period. Muscles protest and ache, and they all roll them out while the Herald stalks to the trebuchet controls.

“I have to turn it, keep me covered!” She sheathes her swords and goes to work. For a while it is quiet, and then their foes come seemingly in waves. By the time the corrupted Captain falls, a mage who had claimed Calpernia as her name beside him, they are all weary beyond measure. They get the trebuchet set and let it fly.

It is a beautiful sight, the torches coming over the pass all doused in an instant under snow and rock. They may just survive – a cheer goes up, but then, then the dragon comes. This Alnira had not anticipated, Corypheus had no dragon on her battlefield before. She flings herself away from the siege weapon, yelling for everyone to get down when heat and debris hit her back. Some lay dead, but her people seem intact. Small mercies.

“That’s just messed up,” the Bull groans, shaking himself as he stands. There are no quips from Solas or Varric.

“We have to get back to the gates. Let’s move!”  She runs, even as her body protests the beating it’s already taken. The Smithy is on fire, but all the horses are gone, and Harritt stands at the door.

“What the hell are you doing?!” She roars as she veers off the road.

“I’ve got men inside, and tools I can’t leave behind.”

With a growl the mage come warrior flings a hand at the boxes and they burn to ash in seconds, the heat making her wince. “Let’s get them out, then get your asses to the chantry.”

Together they kick in the door, pulling smiths from the rubble, and Harritt his precious toolset. They run out together, her team still waiting for her and it makes her grind her teeth. “Damn you, I told you –“

“Boss, you stay, we stay, let’s get that ass moving.”

Shaking her head, they take off again, the second and first teams meeting them as they climb the stairs. Cullen is there, waving them in. “Move it!”

The doors slam shut behind them. She gives a silent prayer they had been the last to come in. Logically, the Herald knows there are those who are dying outside. Not all have the mercy of a quick and clean death in this.

“We need to sweep the town and get everyone to the chantry. You were right before, Herald, to get the common folk to leave at the start. That is the one building that might hold against that – that beast.” His eyes are grim, mouth downturned.

“At this point, we just make them work for it.”

She shakes her head, they had to make it through this, they could not allow Corypheus to win. She turns to the Circle. “Same teams, we split up and clear the town of stragglers. No heroes, not today, we need every fighter we can if we mean to make it out of this alive.”

Without another word, Alnira takes off her team behind her. They cut down corrupted templar and enemy mage alike, saving their own in the process. By the time they have Adan and Minaeve they are all covered in gristle and gore, all drawing on their reserves to keep the fight up. It is a losing battle. They meet in the square with Dorian Fenris and the boy, Thren at their side. The dragon circles overhead and they race for the chantry.

The doors open upon a man that sparks anger deep inside the Herald. “Move, Move, keep going, the Chantry is your shelter.” Again, they are the last, but her soul knows many have been left behind, already one foot in the grave. The boy catches the cleric and the doors slam shut behind them.

“He tried to stop a Templar, the blade went deep, he’s going to die.” He speaks so calmly as he helps the dying cleric farther inside the chantry that is rapidly emptying into the lower level. She can hear the fearful cries echoing up the stairs.

“What a charming boy,” the comment would make her laugh if the situation were not what it was.

“Herald! My lady,” Cullen it there, armor clanking as he moves to them, so he does not need to yell. “Our position is not good. That dragon has stolen back any time you might have earned us.” His eyes fall on the boy, and recognition flashes in his eyes. Recognition that the Herald does not miss as the boy speaks up.

“I’ve seen and Archdemon.” Her spine goes rigid. She has not, but there were whispers of the shem – of the humans falling to several of them, whispers of history among the elves who had survived the Elder One’s rule. “I was in the fade, but it looked like that.”

“I don’t care what it looks like,” the blond barks, curls falling into his face as he violently cuts a hand through the air at his waist. “It’s cut a path for that army, whatever remains of it. They’ll kill  _everyone_  in Haven.”

“The Elder one doesn’t care about the village,” the spirit in the boy answers, watching them all carefully, hands still on the cleric. “He only wants the Herald.”

Her gut clenches. If it would save them, she’d hand herself over, but it won’t. Corypheus will level this town and all within it for daring to have faith in her. She knows that with certainty. He had done so with the small outposts of Banreas’, of Adahlena’s, and the Wolf’s. He would suffer no faith placed in any save himself. No loyalty to anyone save himself could be allowed to fester. 

“You know what he will do. Just like I do, except, differently. I don’t like him.” The boy sighs, and Cullen scoffs.

“You don’t like – “his hands hit his thighs and he turns to Jayla. She is the most important person here, she is the reason they are still alive now. She had healed the sky and now they would all die for it. “My lady – there are no tactics to make this survivable. The  _only_  thing that slowed them was the Avalanche -” he watches as understanding dawns on the young mage’s face. Her hope leaves her face, he had not thought she had any left. Her children, perhaps it had been hopes for them. He is sorry to take it from her in these moments which could likely be the last for all of them. “We could turn the remaining trebuchets, cause one last slide.”

“You speak of burying Haven.”

“We are dying, but we can at least decide how. Many didn’t get that choice, and many more after us will not either.”

Her mouth opens as her mind scrambles for alternatives. She will not give up so easily, he knows, but there is nothing else for them to do, nowhere else for them to go. This Chantry may be what keeps them alive, but it also will kill them.

“Chancellor Roderick can help!” The boy grabs her attention away from the lion-maned Commander. “He wants to say it before he dies.”

All eyes of the Inner Circle land on the dying Cleric. “There is a path,” his breathing is labored and he speaks haltingly. Alnira wants to shake him, to reach out and take what he knows, but that is a cruel way to die. “You wouldn’t know it unless you’d made the summer Pilgrimage, as I have.” His hands gesture weakly and sympathy wells in her. He had only wanted to save someone. She hoped he had saved the soul he’d sought out to, so his death wouldn’t be for naught.

“The people can escape.” He heaves himself forward and Alnira is two steps from him in a moment, arms out to catch him should he fall. “She must have shown me. Andraste must have shown me, so – so I could tell you.” His chest inflates weakly and Alnira doesn’t know what to say. He is beyond healing magic now, the pallor of his face, and rattle of his breath give him but hours.

She doesn’t question Roderick’s knowledge of the path, it is a way out. She will take it. “Cullen, can you get them out?”

“Possibly, if he shows us the path, but –“

“I will cover your escape, draw off the Templars and magi who attack."

“Then what of your escape?” The words make the room stand still, Fenris cannot breathe as he watches the Commander and Jayla. The small dark woman who took his heart by storm will not meet anyone’s eyes. She means to die here. His hands shake and a weathered on steadies him.

“Perhaps  - Perhaps you will surprise it, find a way to escape.” The blonde human is full of empty hope and no one speaks. It is as if all the color has been pulled from Thedas as if the air is full of nails.

“Amatus, do not do this. There is a better way,” he doesn’t remember moving, but her face is in his hands, eyes prickly hotly. His heart pounds, the notion of her no longer being here. There is so much to say still. Solas is at his back.

“Da’vhenan, -“

“I have to do this. I lead you all here, though I may not remember it, the steps on the path behind us are my own. He wants me, that damned monster wants  _me_ , and I cannot let him have those innocent people below without trying everything in my power to keep them alive.”

Fenris feels the floor drop out from under him. She is going to go out there, she is going to die so they all might live. There is no guarantee that this plan will work. There is no guarantee her sacrifice will not be in vain.

“Then, da’vhenan, we’re going with you. We will not allow you to face this alone.” Solas' voice is harsh, emotion thick in each word. Fenris agrees, they cannot –

“No.” One word, resolute and Jayla is backing away from his hold on her, from them. Her eyes, he has never seen them look so full of light, so full of pain. “You two must make sure the children survive, no matter what happens to me, they need you. Promise me you will not leave this Chantry unless it is with them upon the path Roderick speaks of.”

“Jayla please –“

“PROMISE ME,” her voice cracks, and there, there she is, there is the woman who danced in silks and satin. There is the woman who cried every night when Solas went away. She is there still.

“We promise.” He croaks the words and hands his head, a hand grasping Solas’ wrist when the other man jolts like he’s been electrified. “You must promise you will not accept death out there. You will come back to the children, to me, to us.”

Her head nods jerkily, yes, she will fight to come back to her family, to her peace. “I will not let go of peace so quickly. You have my word.” Her hands press against their cheeks before she pushes past them.

“The Iron Bull, Dorian, you boy, you come with me. Get me to the trebuchet and then get clear of it, am I understood?” Her voice may shake but there is Silverite in her.

“You got it, boss. I’ve got your back.” Bull is the one who answers, solemn as he shoulders his hammer.

“All right, let’s get this over with.”  Fenris does not stop watching her until the doors close behind her.

She screams, and the dragon screams back at her. Alnira had known this was her fate, to face the Archdemon and its Master. That does not mean it isn’t making her cold, her vision tunneling, mind trying to find a way out. There must be a way out. But even as she starts for the ring of flame just off to the side, she knows there is no escape for her.

She calls, and because of all the death tonight, the spirits come easily. She needs strength, and strength slides into her without a whisper. The Blighted ancient comes for her, stands in the flame. The dragon shrieks and she grits her teeth.

“Enough!” The voice carries a sickly song with it, one she knows only too well. “Pretender, you toy with forces far beyond your ken no more.”

She shakes her head, squaring her shoulders. She is _not_ a pretender, Alnirafenen of Dirthamen’s forces is no lacky, no slight creature that can simply be explained away as an accident. Fate chose this for her, and she walks the paths given.

“I don’t fear you, Corypheus. I’ve seen a place where you are fighting a losing battle.” Her words are hoarse, graveled by her yelling and smoke inhalation.

He stalks forward, just two steps, seething. “Mortals have begged for truth they cannot have. It is beyond what you are, what I was. Know me, know what you have played at being. Exalt the Elder one, the will that is Corypheus, I am the truth these mortals begged for and you _will_ kneel.”

“Never.”

“I could have done this gently. But it is no matter.” He lifts his hand and Alnira feels as if she has been punched. A foci. He holds a foci of corrupted power. “I am here for the anchor, the process or removing it begins now.”

Lifting the empty hand at his side, the monster calls to the anchor and it responds, sputtering and sparking, the roots within her grasping tight, making her gasp and grab at the arm. She cannot remember a pain like this.  He pulls, and the anchor tightens its’ hold on her.  Alnira may have screamed, she doesn’t know. “That _rabbit_ interrupted a ritual, years in the planning. She may have died but it was not before you stole its purpose!”

She is flung into his grip and the talons he calls fingers wrap crushingly tight around her wrist. He sneers at her, studies her. All she wants to do is spit in his face for daring. “I don’t know why or how you survived where the rabbit did not. But what marks you as touched, what you flail at rifts, I crafted to assault the very heavens.”

The magic pulses painfully as his hand tightens and this time, this time the Herald knows she screams as her wrist breaks. The magic in her hand is only digging into her deeper the more Corypheus pulls at it. It’s hers now, no matter what he had intended, this rune, this anchor, is hers. “And you have used it to undo my work – I am almost impressed with your gall.”

“If it’s so fucking important, tell me – what is this meant to do!” She has to survive this, he cannot be allowed to win. But she also must know his goal, the place she’d been, it was without the veil. If it is only that which he seeks, there are far easier ways to do that. But she can head him off at every pass. It’s been but weeks since her return, this place will not survive without the barrier between worlds. It cannot be allowed to pass.

“It is meant to bring certainty where there is none. For you, the certainty that I would always come for it.” She wants to scream in is face that that is no answer.  Before she can, the monster continues, drawing her closer as if to share a secret. “I once breached the Fade in the name of another. To serve the Old Gods of the Empire in person. What I found was chaos, corruption, dead whispers. For a thousand years, I was confused.  No more,” the talons tighten, and she lets out a broken cry, strength trying to bolster her in the face of dual pains. “I have gathered the will to return to the Fade once more, under no name but my own, to Champion the withered Tevinter and to correct this blighted, world. Beg that I succeed.”

 The breath on her face is fetid, his visage more terrible with each passing moment. He is half lyrium, and half darkspawn. The corruption pulses through him, visible under skin stretched tight over twisted bones. He needs to be put down, this plan of his must fail. She’ll do what it takes to make sure of it. “For I have seen the throne of the Gods _and it was empty_.” When he throws her, when her back hits the trebuchet bones, she hears a series of cracks. Strength is all that keeps her moving, albeit slowly as she rights herself.

“The anchor is permanent, you have spoiled it with your stumbling,” she’s so tired of hearing him speak. He rattles on, and on, but there is no point to it anymore. Her sword winks in the fire to her left, her eyes slide to it. She has a mission here, keep the Monster from her people. Grabbing for it, sucking in her pain, embracing it for the clarity it holds, Alnira wrenches herself up, the metal heavy in her hand. Had she missed the signal? Would she be too late with this?

“So be it. I will begin again and find a way to give this weakened world the nation and God it requires.” There, over his head, she sees it. A small ball of red. They made it. They were out. Relief suffuses her body, enough she can almost ignore his narcissistic ramblings.

“ – I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You must die.”

Pushing herself to stand on her feet, the Herald, the Mother, the Commander stares down the devil and smirks. “Your narcissism blinds you, good to know. If I’m dying, it’s not today, but great talk, buddy. Let’s do it again, real soon.”

Strength propels her forward, strength kicks the release of the trebuchet, and strength keeps her sword in hand as she runs. _Find cover, find cover, find cover._ She chants it and the snow tumbles faster than she could have dreamed, but Strength is with her, it sees the mine shaft, it turns her, it saves her. But, strength leaves her in the darkness as she falls, it cannot shield her forever, and as it slips out of her, she whispers her thanks, welcoming the closing darkness.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND THERE IT IS GUYS.   
> Here is the end of this part, which is actually a book.


End file.
